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Wilderness 


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b 


WILDERNESS 

A  JOURNAL  OF  QUIET  ADVENTURE 
IN  ALASKA 

BY 

ROCKWELL  KENT 


WITH  DRAWINGS  BY  THE  AUTHOR 
AND  AN  INTRODUCTION  BY 

DOROTHY    CANFIELD 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 
NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 
XCbe   TKntcfeerbocfter   flJress 


COPYRIGHT,        1920,        BY        ROCKWELL        KENT 

PLATES     ENGRAVED     UNDER     THE     SUPERVISION     OF     WILLIAM    G.    WATT 


?IRST  PRINTING,    MARCH.    I9»o.  SECOND   PRINTING,  JULY,  1934 

THIRD    PRINTING,    AUGUST,     1527 


THE   KNICKERBOCKER   PRESS,   NEW   YORK 


To 

old  L.  M,  Olson,  and 

young  Rockwell  Kent 

of  Fox  Island 

this  journal  is 

respectfully  dedicated 


The  author  acknowledges  the  courtesy  of  the  owners  of  his 
drawings  in  permitting  their  reproduction  in  this  book: 

MRS.  ERNEST  I.  WHITE 
ROBERT   NICHOLS 
STEPHEN   C.  CLARK 
MRS.  PAYNE   THOMPSON 
MRS.  JOSEPH   FLANNERY 
MRS.  J.  S.  MORGAN,  JR. 
DR.  ARNOLD   KLEBS 
HENRY   S.  CHURCHILL 
MRS.  PERCY  W.  DARBYSHIRE 
MRS.  MEREDITH   HARE 
PAUL  MANSHIP 
MRS.  VALENTINE  WINTERS 
HENRY  NEWMAN 
HUNT  DIEDERICH 
PURCELL  JONES 
M.KNOEDLER  AND  COMPANY 
ALBERT  STERNER 
MARIE   STERNER 


INTRODUCTION 


yA         AD  jesting  Pilate  asked  "What   is  Art?"  he  would 

■m^     have  waited  quite  as  many  centuries  for  an  answer  as 

Mm     ■   he  kas  ^or  *^e  answer  t0  his  question  about  Truth. 
m     I     m   For  art  to  the  artist,  and  art  to  the  rest  of  us,  are  two 
^^^    m^    very  different  things.    Art  to  the  artist  is  quite  simply 
Life,  his  life,  of  which  he  has  an  amplitude  and  in- 
tensity unknown  to  us.    What  he  does  for  us  is  to  thrill  us  awake 
to  the  amplitude  and  intensity  of  all  life,  our  own  included.     And 
this  is  a  miracle  for  which  we  can  never  be  thankful  enough. 

This,  at  least,  is  what  Rockwell  Kent's  Alaska  drawings  and 
Alaska  journal  do  for  me;  they  take  me  away  from  that  tired 
absorption  in  things  of  little  import  which  makes  up  most  of  our 
human  life  and  make  me  see,  not  an  unreal  world  of  romantic 
illusion,  that  fool's  pleasure  given  by  the  second-rate  artist,  but 
the  real  wonder-world  in  which  I  live  and  have  always  lived. 
They  make  me  see  suddenly  that  there  is  a  vast  deal  more  in  the 

vii 


INTRODUCTION 

world  than  embittering  and  anxious  preoccupations,  that  much  of  it 
is  fine,  much  is  comforting,  much  awe-inspiring,  much  profoundly 
tragic,  and  all  of  it  makes  up  a  whole  so  vast  that  no  living  organism 
need  feel  cramped. 

No  other  of  the  qualities  of  the  journal  and  drawings  goes  home 
to  me  more  than  the  unforced  authenticity  of  the  impression  set 
down  by  this  strong  and  ardent  artist.  Emerson's  grandeur  is  in- 
finitely more  convincing  to  me  because  of  his  homeliness,  and  I  feel 
a  perverse  Yankee  suspicion  of  those  who  deal  in  sublimities  only. 
The  man  who  can  extract  the  whole  quaint  savor  out  of  that 
magical,  prosaic,  humorous  moment  of  human  life,  the  first  stretch- 
ing yawn  of  the  early  morning,  that  man  can  make  me  believe  that 
I  too  see  the  north  wind  running  mightily  athwart  the  sky.  And  the 
artist  who  can  put  into  the  simplest  drawing  of  a  man  and  a  little 
boy  eating  together  at  a  rough  table  in  a  rough  cabin,  all  the  dear 
solidity  of  family  and  home  life,  with  its  quiet  triumph  against  over- 
powering Nature,  that  artist  can  make  me  bow  my  head  before  the 
sincerity  of  his  impressive  "  Night." 

The  homeliness  of  the  diary,  its  courageously  unaffected  natural- 
ness, how  it  carries  one  out  of  fussy  complications  to  a  long  breath 
of  relief  in  the  fewness  and  permanence  of  things  that  count !  And 
the  humor  of  it  .  .  .  sometimes  deliciously  unintentional  like  the 
picture  of  the  artist  finishing  a  fine  drawing,  setting  the  beans  to 
soak,  bathing  in  the  bread  pan,  and  going  to  bed  to  read  a  chapter  of 
Blake,  sometimes  intentional  and  shrewd  like  "  a  banana-peel  on  a 
mountain-top  tames  that  wilderness,"  or  "colds,  like  bad  temper 
and  loss  of  faith,  are  a  malady  of  the  city  crowd  " ;  sometimes  outright 
and  hearty  like  a  child's  joke,  as  in  the  amusingly  faithful  portrait  of 
the  pot-bellied,  self-important  personality  of  the  air-tight  stove ! 

There  are  only  three  human  characters  in  this  quiet,  intense 
record,  all  of  them  significant  and  vital.    First  of  them  is  the  artist 

viii 


INTRODUCTION 

himself,  who  in  these  notes,  written  originally  for  the  eyes  of  his  in- 
timates only,  speaks  out  with  a  free  unselfconsciousness  as  rare  in 
our  modern  world  as  the  virgin  solitude  of  the  island  where  he  lived. 
Here  is  the  artist  at  work,  creating,  as  Henry  James  said  he  could 
not  be  shown;  the  artist,  that  is,  a  man  violently  alive,  full-blooded 
and  fine,  fierce  and  pure,  arrogant  and  tender,  with  an  elate,  boastful, 
well-founded  certainty  of  his  strength,  rejoicing  in  his  work,  in  his 
son,  in  his  friend,  in  the  whole  visible  world,  and  most  of  all  in  himself 
and  his  own  vigorous  possibilities  for  good,  evil,  and  creative  work. 

The  other  two  human  characters  in  this  adventuring  quest  after 
great  and  simple  things  are  acquisitions  to  be  thankful  for,  also ;  the 
touchingly  tender-hearted,  knight-like,  beautiful,  funny  little  boy; 
and  lovable,  dignified  old  Olson  ...  a  fiction  writer  wonders  in 
despair  why  old  Olson  so  vividly,  brilliantly  lives  in  these  unstudied 
pages,  solid,  breathing,  warm,  as  miraculously  different  from  all  other 
human  beings  as  any  creature  of  flesh  and  blood  who  draws  the 
mysterious  breath  of  life  beside  you  in  the  same  room. 

Fox  Island  lives  too;  we  walk  about  it,  treading  solidly,  loving 
"  every  log  and  rotten  stump,  gnarled  tree,  every  mound  and  path, 
the  rocks  and  brooks,  each  a  being  in  itself,  "  just  as  little  Rockwell 
does ;  and  we  climb  with  the  "  two  younger  ones  up  the  sheer,  snow- 
covered  ridge  till  across  the  great  jagged  teeth  of  Fenris-the-Wolf, 
we  see  the  glory  of  the  open  sea."  We  "  look  up  at  Olson,  swaying 
gigantic  on  the  deck  above  us,  as  we  bump  the  side  in  our  little  boat  " 
and  we  go  down  into  the  warm  cabin  full  of  the  fumes  of  cooking  and 
good-fellowship,  and  drink  with  the  old  skipper  and  the  old  Swede  till 
we  too  see  deep  "under  the  white  hard  surface  of  where  life  is 
hidden." 

All  this  firm  earth  gives  authority  and  penetration  to  the  shining 
beauty  which  pervades  the  book  and  the  drawings,  carries  us  along 
to  share  it,  not  merely  to  look  at  it ;  to  feel  it,  not  merely  to  admire  it. 

ix 


INTRODUCTION 

The  notes  here  published  were  written,  I  believe,  day  by  day  for 
the  author's  wife  and  children,  and  are  here  published  almost  as 
they  were  set  down,  as  commentary  to  the  drawings.  Well,  let  us  be 
thankful  that  we  were  let  into  the  family  circle  and  along  with  them 
can  spend  six  months  in  the  midst  of  strength  and  beauty  and  tender- 
ness and  fun  and  majesty,  close  to  simple  things,  great  because  they 
are  real.  The  author  may  be  sure  that  we  leave  them  with  the  same 
backward-looking  wistfulness  he  feels,  and  with  the  same  gratitude 
for  having  known  them. 

Dorothy  Canfield. 


PREFACE 

X^r^^^kOST  of  this  book  was  written  on  Fox  Island  in  Alaska, 
fW  ■  I  a  journal  added  to  from  day  to  day.  It  was  not 
■  W  ■  M  meant  for  publication  but  merely  that  we  who  were 
^^  W  W  living  there  that  year  might  have  always  an  unfailing 
memory  of  a  wonderfully  happy  time.  There's  a  ring  of  truth  to  all 
freshly  written  records  of  experience  that,  whatever  their  short- 
comings, makes  them  at  least  inviolable.  Besides  the  journal,  a 
few  letters  to  friends  have  been  drawn  upon.  All  are  given  un- 
changed but  for  the  flux  of  a  new  paragraph  or  chapter  here  and 
there  to  form  a  kind  of  narrative,  the  only  possible  literary  ac- 
companiment to  the  drawings  of  that  period  herein  published.  The 
whole  is  a  picture  of  quiet  adventure  in  the  wilderness,  above  all 
an  adventure  of  the  spirit. 

What  one  would  look  for  in  a  story  of  the  wild  Northwest  is 
lacking  in  these  pages.  To  have  been  further  from  a  settled  town 
might  have  brought  not  more  but  less  excitement.  The  wonder  of 
the  wilderness  was  its  tranquillity.  It  seemed  that  there  both  men 
and  the  wild  beasts  pursued  their  own  paths  freely  and,  as  if  con- 
scious of  the  wide  freedom  of  their  world,  molested  one  another  not 
at  all.  It  was  the  bitter  philosophy  of  the  old  trapper  who  was  our 
companion  that  of  all  animals  Man  was  the  most  terrible;  for  if 

xi 


PREFACE 

the  beasts  fought  and  killed  for  some  good  cause  Man  slew  for 
none. 

Deliberately  I  have  begun  this  happy  story  far  out  in  Resurrection 
Bay; — and  again  dropped  its  peaceful  thread  on  the  forlorn  thresh- 
old of  the  town.  "We  found  Fox  Island  on  Sunday,  August 
twenty-fifth,  191 8,  and  left  there  finally  on  the  seventeenth  of  the 
following  March. 

R.  K. 

Arlington,  Vermont, 
December,  1919. 


zu 


CONTENTS 


Introduction 
Preface 

Chapter 

I. — Discovery 

II. — Arrival  . 
HI. — Chores  . 
IV.— Winter  . 

V. — Waiting 
VI. — Excursion 
VII.— Home     . 
Vin.— Christmas 
IX.— New  Year 

X. — Olson. 
XI.— Twilight 


Page 

vii 
xi 

I 
10 

41 

67 
84 

102 
IOQ 
134 
150 
l82 

200 


ZU1 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Facing  Page 

"  Zarathustra  Himself  Led  the  Ugliest  Man  by  the  Hand,  in 
Order  to  Show  Him  His  Night-World  and  the  Great  Round 


Moon  and  tne  biivery  waterraus  JNign  unto  jus  uave" 

2 

Unknown  Waters        ....... 

6 

Home  Building 

12 

Fire  Wood 

16 

The  Sleeper 

20 

The  Windlass 

24 

The  Snow  Queen 

28 

Fox  Island,  Resurrection  Bay,  Kenai  Peninsula,  Alaska  . 

32 

Rain  Torrents 

36 

Day 

42 

Night 

.    46 

Wilderness 

50 

One  of  Rockwell's  Drawings         ..... 

54 

Sunrise      ......... 

■       56 

Adventure           ........ 

.       60 

XV 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


Facing 


On  the  Height    . 

The  Day's  Work 

Meal  Time 

Day's  End . 

The  Cabin  Window 

"  Go  to  Bed  " 

Driftwood  . 

The  Whittler 

"Get  Up!" 

Man 

Woman 

Foreboding 

Lone  Man 

Cain 

Superman 

The  North  Wind 

Another  of  Rockwell's  Drawings 

Weltschmerz 

Victory       .... 

Zarathustra  and  His  Playmates 

Frozen  Fall 

The  Hermit 


xvi 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


Ecstasy 

Pelagic  Reverie 
Prison  Bars 
Running  Water 
Immanence 
The  Vision 
The  Imperishable 
The  Star-Lighter 


Facing  Page 
I76 

184 

188 

IQ2 

I96 

202 

206 

210 


XV11 


/ 


CHAPTER  I 


DISCOVERY 


®E  must  have  been  rowing  for  an  hour  across  that 
seeming  mile-wide  stretch  of  water. 
The  air  is  so  clear  in  the  North  that  one  new  to 
it  is  lost  in  the  crowding  of  great  heights  and  spaces. 
Distant  peaks  had  risen  over  the  lower  mountains  of 
the  shore  astern.    Steep  spruce-clad  slopes  confronted  us.    All  around 
was  the  wilderness,  a  no-man's-land  of  mountains  or  of  cragged 
islands,  and  southward  the  wide,  the  limitless,  Pacific  Ocean. 

A  calm,  blue  summer's  day, — and  on  we  rowed  upon  our  search. 
Somewhere  there  must  stand  awaiting  us,  as  we  had  pictured  it,  a 
little  forgotten  cabin,  one  that  some  prospector  or  fisherman  had 
built;  the  cabin,  the  grove,  the  sheltered  beach,  the  spring  or  stream 
of  fresh,  cold  water, — we  could  have  drawn  it  even  to  the  view  that  it 
must  overlook,  the  sea,  and  mountains,  and  the  glorious  West.  We 
came  to  this  new  land,  a  boy  and  a  man,  entirely  on  a  dreamer's 
search ;  having  had  vision  of  a  Northern  Paradise,  we  came  to  find  it. 
With  less  faith  it  might  have  seemed  to  us  a  hopeless  thing 
exploring  the  unknown  for  what  you've  only  dreamed  was  there. 
Doubt  never  crossed  our  minds.    To  sail  uncharted  waters  and 

i 


WILDERNESS 

follow  virgin  shores — what  a  life  for  men!  As  the  new  coast 
unfolds  itself  the  imagination  leaps  into  full  vision  of  the  human 
drama  that  there  is  immanent.  The  grandeur  of  the  ocean  cliff  is 
terrible  with  threat  of  shipwreck.  To  that  high  ledge  the  wave  may 
lift  you ;  there,  where  that  storm-dwarfed  spruce  has  found  a  hold  for 
half  a  century,  you  perhaps  could  cling.  A  hundred  times  a  day  you 
think  of  death  or  of  escaping  it  by  might  and  courage.  Then  at  the 
first  softening  of  the  coast  toward  a  cove  or  inlet  you  imagine  all  the 
mild  beauties  of  a  safe  harbor,  the  quiet  water  and  the  beach  to  land 
upon,  the  house-site,  a  homestead  of  your  own,  cleared  land,  and 
pastures  that  look  seaward. 

Now  having  crossed  the  bay  thick  wooded  coast  confronted  us, 
and  we  worked  eastward  toward  a  wide-mouthed  inlet  of  that  shore. 
But  all  at  once  there  appeared  as  if  from  nowhere  a  little,  motor- 
driven  dory  coming  toward  us.  We  hailed  and  drew  together  to 
converse.  It  was  an  old  man  alone.  We  told  him  frankly  what  we 
were  and  what  we  sought. 

"  Come  with  me,  "  he  cried  heartily,  "  come  and  I  show  you  the 
place  to  live.  "  And  he  pointed  oceanward  where,  straight  in  the 
path  of  the  sun  stood  the  huge,  dark,  mountain  mass  of  an  island. 
Then,  seizing  upon  our  line,  he  towed  us  with  him  to  the  south. 

The  gentle  breeze  came  up.  With  prow  high  in  the  air  we  spanked 
the  wavelets,  and  the  glistening  spray  flew  over  us.  On  we  went 
straight  at  the  dazzling  sun  and  we  laughed  to  think  that  we  were 
being  carried  we  knew  not  where.  And  all  the  while  the  strange  old 
man  spoke  never  a  word  nor  turned  his  head,  driving  us  on  as  if  he 
feared  we  might  demand  to  be  unloosed.  At  last  his  island  towered 
above  us.  It  was  truly  sheer-sided  and  immense,  and  for  all  we  could 
discover  harborless ;  till  in  a  moment  rounding  the  great  headland  of 
its  northern  end  the  crescent  arms  of  the  harbor  were  about  us, — 
and  we  were  there ! 

2 


§§§1 

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If 

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1 

j 

[•_• 

1         ,J 

ZARATHUSTRA  HIMSELF  LED  THE  UGLIEST  MAN  BY  THE  HAND, 
IN  ORDER  TO  SHOW  HIM  HIS  NIGHT-WORLD  AND  THE  GREAT 
ROUND  MOON  AND  THE  SILVERY  WATERFALLS  NIGH  UNTO 
HIS  CAVE" 


DISCOVERY 

What  a  scene !  Twin  lofty  mountain  masses  flanked  the  entrance 
and  from  the  back  of  these  the  land  dipped  downwards  like  a  ham- 
mock swung  between  them,  its  lowest  point  behind  the  center  of  the 
crescent.  A  clean  and  smooth,  dark-pebbled  beach  went  all  around 
the  bay,  the  tide  line  marked  with  driftwood,  gleaming,  bleached 
bones  of  trees,  fantastic  roots  and  worn  and  shredded  trunks.  Above 
the  beach  a  band  of  brilliant  green  and  then  the  deep,  black  spaces  of 
the  forest.  So  huge  was  the  scale  of  all  of  this  that  for  some  time  we 
looked  in  vain  for  any  habitation,  at  last  incredulously  seeing  what 
we  had  taken  to  be  bowlders  assume  the  form  of  cabins. 

The  dories  grounded  and  we  leapt  ashore,  and  followed  up  the 
beach  onto  the  level  ground  seeing  and  wondering,  with  beating 
hearts,  and  crying  all  the  time  to  ourselves:  "  It  isn't  possible,  it  isn't 
real!" 

There  was  a  green  grass  lawn  beneath  our  feet  extending  on  one 
side  under  an  orchard  of  neatly  pruned  alders  to  the  mountain's  base, 
and  on  the  other  into  the  forest  or  along  the  shore.  In  the  midst  of  the 
clearing  stood  the  old  man's  cabin.  He  led  us  into  it.  One  little 
room,  neat  and  comfortable ;  two  windows  south  and  west  with  the 
warm  sun  streaming  through  them;  a  stove,  a  table  by  the  window 
with  dishes  piled  neatly  on  it;  some  shelves  of  food  and  one  of  books 
and  papers;  a  bunk  with  gaily  striped  blankets;  boots,  guns,  tools, 
tobacco-boxes ;  a  ladder  to  the  store-room  in  the  loft.  And  the  old 
man  himself:  a  Swede,  short,  round  and  sturdy,  head  bald  as  though 
with  a  priestly  tonsure,  high  cheek  bones  and  broad  face,  full  lips,  a 
sensitive  small  chin, — and  his  little  eyes  sparkled  with  good  humor. 

"  Look,  this  is  all  mine,  "  he  was  saying;  "  you  can  live  here  with 
me — with  me  and  Nanny,  " — for  by  this  time  not  only  had  the  milk 
goat  Nanny  entered  but  a  whole  family  of  foolish-faced  Angoras, 
father,  mother,  and  child,  nosing  among  us  or  overturning  what  they 
could  in  search  of  food.    He  took  us  to  the  fox  corral  a  few  yards  from 

5 


WILDERNESS 

the  house.  There  were  the  blues  in  its  far  corner  eying  us  askance. 
We  saw  the  old  goat  cabin  built  of  logs  and  were  told  of  a  newer  one, 
an  unused  one  down  the  shore  and  deeper  in  the  woods. 

"  But  come,  "  he  said  with  pride,  "  I  show  you  my  location  notice. 
I  have  done  it  all  in  the  proper  way  and  I  will  get  my  title  from  Wash- 
ington soon.  I  have  staked  fifty  acres.  It  is  all  described  in  the 
notice  I  have  posted ;  and  I  would  like  to  see  anybody  get  that  away 
from  me.  " 

By  now  we  had  reached  the  great  spruce  tree  to  whose  trunk  he 
had  affixed  a  sort  of  roofed  tablet  or  shrine  to  house  the  precious 
document.  But,  ah  look !  the  tablet  was  bare !  only  that  from  a  small 
nail  in  it  hung  a  torn  shred  of  paper. 

"  Billy,  Nanny!  "  roared  the  old  man  in  irritation  and  mock  rage; 
and  he  shook  his  fist  at  the  foolish  looking  culprits  who  regarded  us 
this  time,  wisely,  from  a  distance.    "  And  now  come  to  the  lake!  " 

We  went  down  an  avenue  through  the  tall  spruce  trees.  The  sun 
flecked  our  path  and  fired  here  and  there  a  flame-colored  mushroom 
that  blazed  in  the  forest  gloom.  Right  and  left  we  saw  deep  vistas, 
and  straight  ahead  a  broad  and  sunlit  space,  a  valley  between  hills ; 
there  lay  the  lake.  It  was  a  real  lake,  broad  and  clean,  of  many  acres 
in  extent,  and  the  whole  mountain  side  lay  mirrored  in  it  with  the 
purple  zenith  sky  at  our  feet.  Not  a  breath  disturbed  the  surface,  not 
a  ripple  broke  along  the  pebbly  beach;  it  was  dead  silent  here  but  for 
maybe  the  far  off  sound  of  surf,  and  without  motion  but  that  high 
aloft  two  eagles  soared  with  steady  wing  searching  the  mountain  tops. 
Ah,  supreme  moment!  These  are  the  times  in  life — when  nothing 
happens — but  in  quietness  the  soul  expands. 

Time  pressed  and  we  turned  back.  "  Show  us  that  other  cabin, 
we  must  go.  " 

The  old  man  took  us  by  a  short  cut  to  the  cabin  he  had  spoken  of. 
It  stood  in  a  darkly  shadowed  clearing,  a  log  cabin  of  ample  size  with 

6 


TNKNOWN   WATERS 


DISCOVERY 

a  small  doorway  that  you  stooped  to  enter.  Inside  was  dark  but  for 
a  little  opening  to  the  west.  There  were  the  stalls  for  goats,  coops  for 
some  Belgian  hares  he  had  once  kept,  a  tin  whirligig  for  squirrels 
hanging  in  the  gable  peak,  and  under  foot  a  shaky  floor  covered  with 
filth. 

But  I  knew  what  that  cabin  might  become.  I  saw  it  once  and  said, 
"  This  is  the  place  we'll  live.  "  And  then  returning  to  our  boat  we 
shook  hands  on  this  great,  quick  finding  of  the  thing  we'd  sought  and, 
since  we  could  not  stay  then  as  he  begged  us  to,  promised  a  speedy 
return  with  all  our  household  goods.  "  Olson's  my  name,  "  he  said, 
"  I  need  you  here.    We'll  make  a  go  of  it.  " 

The  south  wind  had  risen  and  the  white  caps  flew.  We  crossed  the 
bay  pulling  lustily  for  very  joy.  Reaching  the  other  shore  we  saw, 
too  late,  crossing  the  bay  in  search  of  us  the  small  white  sail  of  the 
party  that  had  brought  us  part  way  from  the  town.  So  we  turned  and 
followed  them  until  at  last  we  met  to  their  relief  and  the  great  satis- 
faction of  our  tired  arms. 


^.hart.°lZfort.1!W!!lt.H^rbor:  E-e30rr*c*ion  Bay.AlasKa.Lat.Sg'j-rN,  Loa44^'l5'W 


CHAPTER  H 
ARRIVAL 

OUR  journal  of  Fox  Island  begins  properly  with  the  day  of 
our  final  coming  there,  Wednesday,  August  the  twenty- 
eighth,  1 91 8. 
At  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning  of  that  day  we  slid 
our  dory  into  the  water  from  the  beach  at  Seward, 
clamped  our  little  patched-up   three    and   one  half  horse-power 
Evenrude  motor  in  the  stern,  and  commenced  our  loading. 

Since  the  main  part  of  such  a  story,  as  in  all  these  following  pages 
we  shall  have  to  tell,  must  consist  in  the  detailing  of  the  innumerable 
little  commonplaces  of  our  daily  lives,  we  shall  begin  at  once  with  a 
list,  as  far  as  we  have  record  of  it,  of  all  we  carried  with  us.    It  follows : 


1  Yukon  stove 

4  lengths  stovepipe 

1  broom 

1  bread  pan 

1  wash  basin 


1  bean  pot 
1  mixing  bowl 
Turpentine 
Linseed  oil 
Nails,  etc. 


10 


ARRIVAL 


io  gals,  gasoline 
10  lbs.  rice 

5  lbs.  barley 

io  lbs.  cornmeal 
io  lbs.  rolled  oats 
io  lbs.  hominy 
io  lbs.  farina 
io  lbs.  sugar 
50  lbs.  flour 
2  packages  bran 

6  cans  cocoa 
1  lb.  tea 

1  case  milk 
8  lbs.  chocolate 
1  gal.  sirup 
1  gal.  cooking  oil 

1  piece  bacon 

2  cans  dried  eggs 

2  cans  baked  beans 
6  lemons 

2  packages  pancake  flour 
10  lbs.  whole  wheat  flour 
6  ivory  soap 

3  laundry  soap 
6  agate  cups 

4  agate  plates 
4  agate  bowls 
2  agate  dishes 


4  pots 

2  pillows 

2  comforters 

1  roll  building  paper 
1  frying  pan 

3  bread  tins 

10  lbs.  lima  beans 
10  lbs.  white  beans 

5  lbs.  Mexican  beans 
10  lbs.  spaghetti 

12  cans  tomatoes 
100  lbs.  potatoes 
10  lbs.  dried  peas 
5  lbs.  salt 
1  gal.  peanut  butter 

1  gal.  marmalade 
Pepper 

Yeast 

5  lbs.  prunes 
5  lbs.  apricots 
5  lbs.  carrots 
10  lbs.  onions 

4  cans  soup 
12  candles 

2  Dutch  Cleanser 
Matches 

1  tea  kettle 
Pails,  etc. 


Also  there  were  a  heavy  trunk  containing  books,  paints,  etc.,  one 
duffel  bag,  one  suit  case,  and  a  few  other  things.  And  when  these 
were  stowed  away  in  the  dory  there  was  little  room  for  ourselves. 
However,  at  ten  o'clock  we  cast  off  and  started  for  Fox  Island  with 
the  little  motor  running  beautifully. 

It  lasted  for  three  miles  when  at  once,  with  a  bang  and  a  whir,  the 
motor  raced,  and  the  boat  stood  motionless  on  the  calm  gray  water. 
Through  the  fog  we  could  just  discern  the  cabin  of  a  fisherman  on  the 
nearest  point  of  shore — perhaps  a  mile  distant.    We  rowed  there  as 

11 


WILDERNESS 

best  we  could,  seated  somehow  atop  our  household  goods;  we  un- 
loaded our  useless  motor,  our  gasoline,  and  our  batteries,  cleared  a 
little  space  in  the  boat  for  ourselves  to  man  the  oars,  and  in  a  miser- 
able drizzling  rain,  pushed  off  for  a  long,  long  pull  to  the  island.  By 
too  literal  a  following  of  directions  I  lengthened  the  remainder  of  the 
course  to  twelve  miles,  and  that  we  rowed,  I  don't  know  how,  in  four 
hours  and  a  half.  Fortunately  the  water  was  as  calm  as  could  be. 
Rockwell  was  a  revelation  to  me.  With  scarcely  a  rest  he  pulled  at 
the  heavy  oars  that  at  first  he  had  hardly  understood  to  manage ;  and 
when  we  reached  the  island  he  was  hilarious  with  good  spirits. 

We  unloaded  with  the  help  of  Olson — whom  by  the  way  we  must 
introduce  at  some  length — and  stowed  our  goods  in  his  house  and 
shed.  We  cooked  our  supper  on  his  stove  and  slept  that  night  and  the 
next  on  his  floor ;  and  then,  having  our  own  quarters  by  that  time  in 
passable  shape,  quit  his  friendly  roof  for  the  most  hospitable,  kindly, 
and  altogether  comfortable  roof  in  the  world — our  own. 

Olson  is  about  sixty-five  years  of  age.  He's  a  pioneer  of  Alaska 
and  knows  the  country  from  one  end  to  the  other.  He  has  prospected 
for  gold  on  the  Yukon,  he  was  at  Nome  with  the  first  rush  there,  he 
has  trapped  along  a  thousand  miles  of  coast ;  and  now,  ever  unsuccess- 
ful and  still  enterprising,  he  is  the  proprietor  of  two  pairs  of  blue 
foxes — in  corrals —  and  four  goats.  He's  a  kind-hearted,  genial  old 
man  with  a  vast  store  of  knowledge  and  true  wisdom. 

The  map  shows  our  Fox  Island  estate.  Our  cabin  was  built  as  a 
shelter  for  Angora  goats  somewhat  over  a  year  ago.  It  is  a  roughly 
built  log  structure  of  about  fourteen  by  seventeen  feet,  inside  dimen- 
sions, and  was  quite  dark  but  for  the  small  door  and  a  two  by 
two  feet  opening  on  the  western  side.  We  went  to  work  upon  it  the 
morning  following  our  arrival  and  in  two  days,  as  has  been  told,  made 
it  a  fit  place  to  live  in  but  by  no  means  the  luxurious  home  that  it  was 
in  our  mind  to  make.  Our  cabin  to-day  is  the  product  of  weeks'  more 

12 


IOME  BUILDING 


ARRIVAL 

labor.  To  describe  it  is  to  account  for  our  time  almost  to  the  beginning 
of  the  detailed  days  of  this  diary. 

Tread  first  upon  a  broad,  plank  doorstep  the  hatch  of  some  ill- 
fated  vessel — the  sea's  gift  to  us  of  a  front  veranda ;  stoop  your  head 
to  four  feet  six  inches  and,  drawing  the  latchstring,  enter.  Before 
you  at  the  south  end  of  the  sombre,  log  interior  is  a  mullioned  window 
willing  to  admit  more  light  than  can  penetrate  the  forest  beyond. 
Before  it  is  a  fixed  work  table  littered  with  papers,  pencils,  paints,  and 
brushes.  On  each  long  side  of  the  cabin  is  a  shelf  the  eaves'  height, 
five  feet  from  the  floor.  The  right-hand  one  is  packed  with  foods  in 
sacks  and  tins  and  boxes,  the  left-hand  shelf  holds  clothes  and  toys, 
paints  and  a  flute,  and  at  the  far  corner  built  to  the  floor  in  orthodox 
bookcase  fashion,  a  library. 

We  may  glance  at  the  books.    There  are : 

"  Indian  Essays ."     Coomaraswamy 

"  Griechische  Vasen  " 

"  The  Water  Babies  " 

"  Robinson  Crusoe  " 

"  The  Prose  Edda  " 

"  Anson's  Voyages  " 

"  A  Literary  History  of  Ireland.  "     Douglas  Hyde 

"  The  Iliad  » 

"  The  Crock  of  Gold  " 

"  The  Odyssey  " 

Andersen's  "  Fairy  Tales  " 

"  The  Oxford  Book  of  English  Verse  " 

"  The  Home  Medical  Library  " 

Blake's  "  Poems  " 

Gilchrist's  "  Life  of  Blake  " 

"  The  Tree  Dwellers,"  "The  Cave  Dwellers,"  "  The  Sea  People,"  etc. 

"  Pacific  Coast  Tide  Table  " 

"  Thus  Spake  Zarathustra  " 

"  The  Book  of  the  Ocean  " 

"  Albrecht  Diirer  "  (A  Short  Biography) 

"WilhelmMeister" 

Hansen's  "  In  Northern  Mists  " 

15 


WILDERNESS 

In  the  center  of  the  right-hand  wall  is  a  small  low  window  and 
beneath  it  the  dining  table.  Right  at  the  door  where  we  stand,  to 
our  left,  is  the  sheet-iron  Yukon  stove  and  behind  it  another  food- 
laden  shelf.  A  new  floor  of  broad  unplaned  boards  is  under  our  feet, 
a  wooden  platform — it  is  a  bed — stands  in  the  left-hand  corner  by 
the  stove.  Clothes  hang  under  the  shelves ;  pots  and  pans  upon  the 
wall,  snowshoes  and  saws ;  a  rack  for  plates  in  one  place,  a  cupboard 
for  potatoes  and  turnips  behind  the  door — the  cellar  it  may  be  called ; 
the  trunk  for  a  seat,  boxes  for  chairs,  one  stool  for  style ;  axes  here 
and  boots  innumerable  there,  and  we  have,  I  think,  all  that  the  eye 
can  take  in  of  this  adventurers'  home ! 

Trees  stood  thick  about  our  cabin  when  we  first  came  there ;  and 
between  it  and  the  shore  a  dense  and  continuous  thicket  of  large 
alders  and  sapling  spruces.  Day  by  day  we  cleared  the  ground ;  cutting 
avenues  and  vistas ;  then,  though  contented  at  first  with  these,  en- 
larging them  until  they  merged,  and  the  sun  began  to  shine  about  the 
cabin.  It  grew  brighter  then  and  drier, — nonsense !  am  I  mistaking 
the  daylight  for  the  sun?  I  can  remember  but  one  or  two  fair  days  in 
all  the  three  weeks  of  our  first  stay  on  the  island. 

For  a  true  record  of  this  matter  Olson's  diary  shall  be  copied 
into  these  pages.  It  follows  in  full  with  his  own  phonetic  spelling 
as  leaven. 


Sunday,  Aug.  25th. — Wary  fin  Day.  over  tu  Hump  Bay  got  2  salmon  an 
artist  cam  ar  to  Day  and  going  to  seward  efter  his  outfit  and  ar  going  to  sta 
Hear  this  Winter  in  the  new  Cabbin. 

Wed.  28th. — Drisly  rain  and  cold.  Mr.  Kint  and  is  son  arivd  from  seward 
this  afternoon,    goats  out  all  night. 

Thurs.  29th. — goats  cam  ome — 12.30  p.  m.  Mr.  Kint  Working  on  the  Cabbin 
fixing  at  up.    Drisly  rain  all  night  and  all  day. 

Fri.  30th. — Wary  fin  day  and  the  goats  vant  for  the  montane  igan.  Help 
putting  Windoes  i  to  the  Cabbin. 

Sat.  31st. — Foggy  day.    Big  steamer  going  to  seward. 

16 


FIRE   WOOD 


ARRIVAL 

September 

Sun.  i st. — Mead  a  trip  around  the  island.     Cloudy  Day. 
M.  2. — Big  rainstorm  from  the  S.  E.  goats  all  in  the  stabel. 
T.  3. — Drisly  rain  all  Day. 
W.  4. — going  to  seward. 
T.  5. — Came  Home  1  p.m. 
F.  6. — Drisly  rain  and  Calm  Wather. 
S.  7. — S.  E.  rainstorm. 
Sun.  8. — Big  S.  E.  rainstorm. 
.9. — 

T_  _  <<  (III  II 

.  10. — 

W.  11.— first  Colld  night  this  fall.     Clear  Calm  Day. 

T.  12. — Clowdy  and  Calm.    Tug  and  Barg  going  West. 

F.  13. — Steamer  from  the  Sought  5.30  p.m.    Drisly  rain  and  Calm. 

S.  14. — raining  Wary  Hard,  the  litly  angora  queen  ar  in  Hit  this  morning. 
Fraet  steamer  from  West  going  to  Seward. 

Sun.  15. — raining  Wary  Hard  all  Day.  the  goats  ar  in  the  cabbin  all  Day 
sought  Est  storm. 

M.  16. — S.E.  rainstorm. 

T.  17. — raining  all  Day.     North  Est  storm  With  Caps  and  Wullys  all  over. 

W.  18. — Wary  fear  day.    Mr.  Kint  and  the  Boy  vant  to  seward  this  morning. 

T.  19. — raining  heard  all  day  steamer  from  West  going  to  seward  4  p.m. 

F.  20. — raining  heard  all  Day. 

S.  21. — Wary  rof  rainstorm  from  Soght  Est.    Wullys  all  over. 

Sun.  22. — Steamer  from  West  going  to  Seward  2  p.m.  the  tied  vary  Hie  Comes 
clear  up  in  the  gras  and  the  surf  ar  Stiring  up  all  the  Driftwood  along  the  shore, 
raining  lik  Hell. 

M.  23. — raining  all  Day. 

T.  24. — Snow  on  top  of  the  mountins  on  the  maenland  a  tre  mastid  skuner 
from  West  going  to  Seward,  toed  by  som  gassboth  raining  to  Day  egan.  Mr. 
Kint  and  son  got  ome  to  the  island  this  Evening. 

September  fourteenth. 

I  stopped  writing,  for  the  fire  had  almost  gone  out  and  the  cold 
wind  blew  in  from  two  dozen  great  crevasses  in  the  walls.  The  best 
of  log  cabins  need  recalking,  I  am  told,  once  a  year,  and  mine, 
roughly  built  as  it  is,  needs  it  now  in  the  worst  way.  Some  openings 
are  four  or  five  inches  wide  by  two  feet  long.    We've  gathered  a  great 

19 


WILDERNESS 

quantity  of  moss  for  calking,  but  it  has  rained  so  persistently  that  it 
cannot  dry  out  to  be  fit  for  use. 

Well,  it  rains  and  rains  and  rains.  Since  beginning  this  journal 
we've  had  not  one  fair  day,  and  since  we've  been  here  on  the  island, 
seventeen  days,  there  has  been  only  one  rainless  day.  There  has  been 
but  one  cloudless  sunrise.  I  awoke  that  day  just  at  dawn  and  looking 
across  out  of  the  tiny  square  window  that  faces  the  water  could  see  the 
blue — the  deep  blue — mountains  and  the  rosy  western  sky  behind 
them.  At  last  the  sun  rose  somewhere  and  tipped  the  peaks  and  the 
hanging  glaciers,  growing  and  growing  till  the  shadows  of  other  peaks 
were  driven  down  into  the  sea  and  the  many  ranges  stood  full  in  the 
morning  light.  The  twilight  hours  are  so  wonderfully  long  here  as  the 
sun  creeps  down  the  horizon.  Just  think!  there'll  be  months  this 
winter  when  we'll  not  see  the  sun  from  our  cove — only  see  it  touching 
the  peaks  above  us  or  the  distant  mountains.  It  will  be  a  strange 
life  without  the  dear,  warm  sun ! 

I  wonder  if  you  can  imagine  what  fun  pioneering  is.  To  be  in  a 
country  where  the  fairest  spot  is  yours  for  the  wanting  it,  to  cut  and 
build  your  own  home  out  of  the  land  you  stand  upon,  to  plan  and  cre- 
ate clearings,  parks,  vistas,  and  make  out  of  a  wilderness  an  ordered 
place !  Of  course  so  much  was  done — nearly  all — when  I  came.  But 
in  clearing  up  the  woods  and  in  improving  my  own  stead  I  have  had  a 
taste  of  the  great  experience.   Ah,  it's  a  fine  and  wholesome  life !  .  .  . 

Another  day.  The  storm  rages  out  of  doors.  To-day  I  stuffed  the 
largest  of  the  cracks  in  our  wall  with  woolen  socks,  sweaters,  and  all 
manner  of  clothes.  It's  so  warm  and  cozy  here  now !  Olson  has  been 
in  to  see  me  for  a  long  chat.  I  believe  he  can  give  one  the  material 
for  a  thrilling  book  of  adventure.  Take  his  story,  or  enough  of  the 
thousand  wild  incidents  of  it,  give  it  its  true  setting — publishing  a 
map  of  that  part  of  the  coast  where  his  travels  mostly  lay — let  it  be 
frankly  his  story  retold,  above  all  true  and  savoring  of  this  land — 

20 


:he  sleeper 


ARRIVAL 

and  I  believe  no  record  of  pioneering  or  adventure  could  surpass  it. 
He's  a  keen  philosopher  and  by  his  critical  observations  gives  his 
discourse  a  fine  dignity.  On  Olson's  return  to  Idaho  in  the  '8o's  after 
his  first  trip  to  Alaska  a  friend  of  his,  a  saloon-keeper,  came  out  into 
the  street,  seized  him,  and  drew  him  into  his  place.  "  Sit  down,  Ol- 
son, "  he  said,  "  and  tell  us  about  Alaska  from  beginning  to  end." 
And  the  traveler  told  his  long  wonder-story  to  the  crowd. 

At  last  he  finished. 

"  Olson,  "  said  his  friend,  "  that  would  make  the  greatest  book 
in  the  world — if  it  was  only  lies.  " 

Gee,  how  the  storm  rages ! 

I'm  relieved  to-night;  Rockwell,  who  seems  to  have  a  felon  on 
his  finger,  is  improving  under  the  heroic  treatment  he  submits  to. 
I've  had  visions  of  operating  on  it  myself— a  deep  incision  to  the  bone 
being  the  method.  It  is  no  fun  having  such  ailments  to  handle — 
unless  you're  of  the  type  Olson  seems  to  be  who,  if  his  eye  troubled 
him  seriously,  would  stick  in  his  finger  and  pull  the  eye  out, — and 
then  doubtless  fill  the  socket  with  tobacco  juice. 

We  have  reached  Wednesday,  September  the  eighteenth. 

That  day  the  sun  did  shine.  We  rowed  to  Seward,  Rockwell  and 
I ;  stopped  for  the  motor  that  on  our  last  trip  we  had  left  by  the  way, 
but  found  the  surf  too  high.  At  Seward  the  beach  was  strewn  with 
damaged  and  demolished  boats  from  a  recent  storm.  Moreover,  in 
the  town  the  glacial  stream  was  swollen  to  a  torrent ;  the  barriers  had, 
some  of  them,  been  swept  away ;  a  bridge  was  gone,  the  railroad  tracks 
were  flooded,  the  hospital  was  surrounded  and  almost  floated  from 
its  foundations.  And  we  saw  the  next  day,  when  it  again  poured 
rain,  the  black-robed  sisters  of  charity,  booted  to  the  thighs,  fleeing 
through  the  water  to  a  safer  place.  It  stormed  incessantly  for  four 
days  more.  Although  I  had  taken  what  seemed  ample  precaution 
for  the  safety  of  my  dory,  she  was  caught  at  the  height  of  the  storm 

23 


WILDERNESS 

by  the  exceptional  tide  of  that  season  and  carried  against  a  stranded 
boat  high  up  on  the  shore,  and  pinioned  there  by  a  heavy  pile  torn 
from  the  wharf.    But  our  boat  escaped  undamaged. 

Seward  was  dull  for  Rockwell  and  me.  We've  not  come  this  long 
way  from  our  home  for  the  life  of  a  small  town.  America  offers 
nothing  to  the  tourist  but  the  wonders  of  its  natural  scenery.  All 
towns  are  of  one  mold  or  inspired,  as  it  were,  with  one  ideal.  And 
I  cannot  see  in  considering  the  buildings  of  a  single  period  in  the  East 
and  in  the  West  any  indication  of  diversity  of  character,  of  ideals,  of 
special  tradition;  any  susceptibility  to  the  influence  of  local  condi- 
tions, nothing  in  any  typical  American  house  or  town  where  I  have 
been  that  does  not  say  "  made  in  one  mill."  There's  a  God  forsaken 
hideousness  and  commonplaceness  about  Alaskan  architecture  that 
almost  amounts  to  character — but  it  is  not  quite  bad  enough  to  re- 
deem itself.  Somewhere  in  the  wilderness  of  the  Canadian  Rockies 
there's  a  little  town  of  one  street  backed  up  against  the  towering 
mountains.  Dominating  the  town  is  the  two-  or  three-story  "Queen 
Hotel,"  the  last  word  in  flamboyant,  gimcrack  hideousness.  Hotel 
and  Mountain !  it  is  sublime,  that  bald  and  crashing  contrast. 

On  September  third,  I  wrote  to  a  friend :  "  They  strike  me  as 
needlessly  timid  about  the  sea  here,  continually  talking  of  frightful 
currents  and  winds  in  a  way  that  seems  incredible  to  me  and  would, 
I  think,  to  a  New  England  fisherman.  However,  I  must  be  cautious. 
Olson  says  that  in  the  winter  for  weeks  at  a  time  it  has  been  im- 
possible to  make  the  trip  to  Seward.  Well,  I'll  believe  it  when  I  try  it 
and  get  stuck." 

Three  weeks  later, — Tuesday,  September  twenty-fourth,  we  were 
in  Seward.  The  morning  was  calm  varying  between  sun  and  rain, 
but  it  seemed  a  good  day  to  return  to  Fox  Island.  Rockwell  and  I  had 
some  difficulty  launching  our  boat  down  the  long  beach  at  low  water; 
but  at  last  we  managed  it,  loaded  our  goods  aboard, — viz.,  two  large 

24 


THE  WINDLASS 


ARRIVAL 

boxes  of  groceries,  fifty-nine  pounds  turnips,  a  stove,  five  lengths  of 
stovepipe,  a  box  of  wood  panels,  two  hundred  feet  one  inch  by  two 
inch  strips,  suit  case,  snowshoes,  and  a  few  odd  parcels. 

At  ten  forty-five  we  pushed  off.  At  just  about  that  moment  the 
sun  retired  for  the  day  and  a  fine  and  persistent  rain  began  to  fall. 
After  about  three  miles  we  were  overtaken  by  a  fisherman  in  a  motor 
sloop  bound  to  his  camp  three  miles  further  down  the  shore.  He  took 
us  in  tow  and,  finally  arriving  at  his  camp,  begged  us  to  stay  "  for  a 
cup  of  tea  " — he  was  an  Englishman.  I  yielded  to  the  delay  there 
against  my  own  better  judgment.  After  a  hearty  meal  we  left  his 
cove  at  two  fifteen. 

Still  it  drizzled  rain  and  the  breeze  blew  faintly  from  the  northeast. 
We  had  a  seven-mile  row  before  us.  Near  Caines  Head  we  encoun- 
tered squalls  from  the  south  and  were  for  sometime  in  doubt  as  to 
the  wind's  true  direction.  We  headed  straight  for  Fox  Island  only 
to  find  the  wind  easterly,  compelling  us  to  head  up  into  it.  I  for- 
tunately anticipated  a  heavier  blow  and  determined  to  get  as  far  to 
windward  and  as  near  the  shelter  of  the  lea  shore  as  possible,  and 
without  any  loss  of  time.  Our  propulsion  toward  the  island  I  left  to 
the  tide  which  was  about  due  to  ebb.  We  made  good  headway  for  a 
little  time  until  the  wind  bore  upon  us  in  heavy  squalls. 

The  aspect  of  the  day  had  become  ominous.  Heavy  clouds  raced 
through  the  sky  precipitating  rain.  The  mountainous  land  appeared 
blue  black,  the  sea  a  light  but  brilliant  yellow  green.  Over  the  water 
the  wind  blew  in  furious  squalls  raising  a  surge  of  white  caps  and  a 
dangerous  chop.  I  was  now  rowing  with  all  my  strength,  foreseeing 
clearly  the  possibility  of  disaster  for  us,  scanning  with  concern  the 
terrible  leeward  shore  with  its  line  of  breakers  and  steep  cliffs. 
Rockwell,  rowing  always  manfully,  had  great  difficulty  in  the  rising 
sea  and  wind.  Fortunately  he  realized  only  at  rare  moments  the 
dangers  of  our  situation. 

27 


WILDERNESS 

We  were  now  rowing  continually  at  right  angles  to  our  true  course. 
I  had  but  one  hope,  to  get  to  windward  before  the  rising  sea  and  gale 
overpowered  us  and  carried  us  onto  the  dreaded  coast  that  offered 
absolutely  no  hope.  Once  to  windward  I  had  the  choice  of  making  a 
landing  in  some  cove  or  continuing  for  Fox  Island  by  running  with  the 
wind  astern.  At  last  the  surface  of  the  water  was  fairly  seething 
under  the  advancing  squalls;  the  spray  was  whipped  into  vapor  and 
the  caldron  boiled.  I  bent  my  back  to  the  oars  and  put  every  ounce 
of  strength  into  holding  my  own  with  the  gale.  It  was  a  terrible 
moment  for  I  saw  clearly  the  alternative  of  continuing  and  winning 
our  fight. 

"  Father,"  pipes  up  Rockwell  from  behind  me  at  this  tragic  instant 
"  when  I  wake  up  in  the  morning  sometimes  I  pretend  my  toes  are 
asleep,  and  I  make  my  big  toe  sit  up  first  because  he's  the  father  toe." 
A.t  another  time  Rockwell,  who  had  shown  a  little  panic — a  very  little 
— said :  "  You  know  I  want  to  be  a  sailor  so  I'll  learn  not  to  be  afraid." 

At  last  we  turned  and  made  for  the  island.  We  had  reached  the 
point  where  with  good  chances  of  success  we  could  turn, — and  where 
we  had  to.  We  reached  the  shelter  of  the  island  incredibly  fast,  it 
seemed,  with  the  sea  boiling  in  our  wake,  racing  furiously  as  if  to 
engulf  us, — and  then  bearing  us  so  smoothly  and  swiftly  upon  its 
crest  that  if  it  had  not  been  so  terrible  it  would  have  been  the  most 
soothing  and  delightful  motion  in  the  world.  In  rounding  the  head- 
land of  our  cove  a  last  furious  effort  of  the  eluded  storm  careened  us 
sailless  as  we  were  far  on  one  side  and  carried  us  broadside  toward 
the  rocks.  It  was  a  minute  before  we  could  straighten  our  boat  into 
the  wind  and  pull  away  from  the  shore,  then  twenty  feet  away.  Olson 
awaited  us  on  the  beach  with  tackle  in  readiness  to  haul  our  boat  out 
of  the  surf.  We  landed  in  safety.  Looking  at  my  watch  I  found  it  to 
be  a  quarter  to  six.    (The  last  four  miles  had  taken  us  three  hours !) 

Olson's  dory  had  been  hauled  up  onto  the  grass  and  tied  down 

28 


THE   SNOW   QUEEN 


ARRIVAL 

securely.    Mine  was  soon  beside  it.    The  tides  and  heavy  seas  of  this 
time  of  year  make  every  precaution  necessary. 

The  wind  that  night  continued  rising  'til  it  blew  a  gale.  And  that 
night  in  their  bed  Rockwell  and  his  father  put  their  arms  tight  about 
each  other  without  telling  why  they  did  it. 

Wednesday,  September  twenty-fifth. 

It  stormed  from  the  northeast  throughout  the  day.  After  putting 
the  cabin  in  order  and  hanging  out  our  bedding  to  dry  by  the  stove — 
for  we  had  found  it  very  damp — I  set  about  cutting  a  large  spruce  tree 
whose  high  top  shut  out  the  light  from  our  main  windows.  A  few 
more  still  stand  in  the  way.  The  removal  of  all  of  them  should  give 
us  a  fair  amount  of  light  even  in  the  winter  when  the  sun  is  hid. 
It  occurs  to  me  that  it  may  be  rather  fortunate  that  my  studio  window 
looks  to  the  south.  I'll  certainly  not  be  troubled  with  sunlight  while 
I  may  yet  borrow  some  of  the  near-sun  brilliancy  from  above  our 
mountain's  top.  Rockwell  and  I  worked  some  time  with  the  cross- 
cut saw.  I'm  constantly  surprised  by  his  strength  and  stamina.  Rock- 
well read  nine  pages  in  his  book  of  the  cave  dwellers.  So  nine  of 
"Robinson  Crusoe"  were  due  him  after  supper.  He  undresses  and 
jumps  into  bed  and  cuddles  close  to  me  as  I  sit  there  beside  him 
reading.  And  "  Robinson  Crusoe  "  is  a  story  to  grip  his  young  fancy 
and  make  this  very  island  a  place  for  adventure. 

Thursday,  September  twenty-sixth. 

These  are  typical  days,  I  begin  to  feel  sure,  of  prevailing  Alaska 
weather.  It  rains,  not  hard  but  almost  constantly.  Nothing  is  dry 
but  the  stove  and  the  wall  behind  it ;  the  vegetation  is  saturated,  the 
deep  moss  floor  of  the  woods  is  full  as  a  sponge  can  be.  We  took  the 
moss  that  weeks  ago  we'd  gathered  and  spread  along  the  shore  to 

3i 


WILDERNESS 

dry  and  commenced  with  this  sopping  stuff  the  calking  of  our  cabin. 
It  went  rapidly  and  the  two  gable  ends  are  nearly  done.  What  a 
difference  it  makes;  to-night  when  my  fire  roared  for  the  biscuit 
baking  the  heat  was  almost  unbearable.  The  usual  chores  of  wood 
and  water ;  a  little  work  at  manufacturing  stationery ;  supper  of  farina, 
corn  bread,  peanut  butter,  and  tea;  six  pages  for  Rockwell;  and  the 
day,  but  for  this  diary,  is  done. 

Friday,  September  twenty-seventh. 

At  last  it's  fair  after  a  clear  moonlit  night.  I  worked  all  day 
about  the  cabin  calking  it  and  almost  finishing  that  job,  splitting 
wood,  and  working  with  the  cross-cut  saw.  Added  stops  to  the  frame 
of  our  door,  made  a  miter  box,  and  cut  my  long  strips  brought  from 
Seward  last  trip  into  pieces  for  my  stretcher  frames.  And  Rockwell 
all  this  time  helped  cheerfully  when  he  was  called  upon,  played  boat 
on  the  beach,  hunted  imaginary  wild  animals  with  his  bow  and  arrow 
of  stone-age  design,  and  was  as  always  so  contented,  so  happy  that 
the  day  was  not  half  long  enough. 

Ah,  the  evenings  are  beautiful  here  and  the  early  mornings, 
when  the  days  are  fair !  No  sudden  springing  of  the  sun  into  the  sky 
and  out  again  at  night ;  but  so  gradual,  so  circuitous  a  coming  and  a 
going  that  nearly  the  whole  day  is  twilight  and  the  quiet  rose  color  of 
morning  and  evening  seems  almost  to  meet  at  noon.  We  glance 
through  our  tiny  western  window  at  sunrise  and  see  beyond  the  bay 
the  many  ranges  of  mountains,  from  the  somber  ones  at  the  water's 
edge  to  the  distant  glacier  and  snow-capped  peaks,  lit  by  the  far-off 
sun  with  the  loveliest  light  imaginable. 

To-night  for  supper  a  dish  of  Olson's  goat's  milk  "  Klabber  " 
(phonetic  spelling),  simply  sour  milk  with  all  its  cream  upon  it, 
thick  to  a  jelly.  It  was,  in  the  favorite  expression  of  Rockwell, 
"  delicious." 

32 


FOX  ISLAND,  RESURRECTION  BAY,  KENAI  PENINSULA,  ALASKA 


ARRIVAL 

Saturday,  September  twenty-eighth. 

Beginning  fresh  but  overcast  the  day  soon  brought  us  rain, — and 
it  is  now  raining  gently  as  I  write.  And  yet  we  accomplished  a  great 
deal,  clearing  of  undergrowth  a  part  of  the  woods  between  us  and  the 
shore,  felling  three  more  trees,  and  cutting  up  a  monster  tree  with  the 
cross-cut  saw.  At  dinner  time  Olson  ran  in  with  the  greatest  excite- 
ment. On  the  path  in  the  woods  near  the  outlet  of  the  lake  he  had 
seen  at  one  time  five  otters.  They  came  from  the  water  and  advanced 
to  within  twenty  feet  of  where  he  and  Nanny — the  milk  goat — stood. 
And  there  they  played  long  enough  for  him  to  have  taken  a  dozen 
pictures.  In  the  afternoon  we  saw  a  number  of  otters  at  another 
place,  on  the  rocks  at  one  end  of  the  beach.  They  were  in  and  out  of 
the  water,  going  at  times  for  little  excursion  swims  far  out  into  the 
harbor,  then  chasing  each  other  back  and  playing  hide-and-go-seek 
among  the  rocks.  This  afternoon  I  prepared  all  my  wood  panels  to 
begin  my  work,  painting  them  on  both  sides. 

Sunday,  September  twenty-ninth. 

The  Lord  must  have  been  pleased  with  us  to-day  for  the  grand 
clearing  up  we  gave  this  place  of  His.  Olson  has  begun  to  work  to- 
ward me  in  clearing  the  still  wild  part  of  the  intervening  space  be- 
tween our  cabins.  It  begins  to  look  parklike  with  trees  stripped  of 
limbs  ten  or  twelve  feet  from  the  ground  and  the  mossy  floor  beneath 
swept  clean.  With  the  cross-cut  saw  I  finished  up  the  giant  tree  we 
felled  a  few  days  ago ;  and  then,  the  ground  being  clear,  I  cut  the  large 
tree  that  kept  so  much  light  from  our  windows.  The  difference  it  has 
made  is  wonderful ;  our  room  is  flooded  with  light. 

There  is  a  fascination  in  cutting  trees.  Once  I  have  gripped  my 
axe,  or  even  the  tedious  saw,  I  find  it  hard  to  relinquish  it,  returning 
to  it  again  and  again  for  one  more  cut.  I  believe  that  the  clearing  of 
homesteads  gave  the  pioneer  a  compelling  interest  in  life  that  was  in 

35 


WILDERNESS 

wonderful  contrast  to  the  ordinary  humdrum  labor  to  which  at  first 
he  must  have  been  bred.  It  is  easy  to  understand  the  rapid  conquest 
of  the  wilderness ;  begin  it — and  you  cannot  stop. 

Rockwell  has  set  his  heart  upon  trapping,  in  the  kindest  and  most 
considerate  way  known,  some  wild  thing — and  having  it  for  a  pet.  I 
rather  discouraged  his  taming  the  sea  urchin  and  persuaded  him  out 
of  consideration  for  the  intelligent  creature's  feelings  to  restore  him 
to  the  salt  water — and  let  me  have  back  the  bread  pan.  But  now  one 
of  Olson's  box  traps  is  set  for  a  magpie.  They're  plentiful  here.  I 
built  myself  a  fine  easel  to-day,  the  best  one  I've  ever  had ;  and  put  a 
shelf  under  my  drawing  table.  The  room  is  clean  and  neat  to-night; 
it  is  in  every  way  a  congenial  place.  I  don't  see  why  people  need 
better  homes  than  this.  It  was  cloudy  most  of  to-day  and  rained  a 
very  little  from  time  to  time.    Soon  I  can  no  longer  keep  from  painting. 

Monday,  September  thirtieth. 

The  morning  brilliant,  clear,  and  cold  with  the  wind  in  the  north. 
I  promised  Rockwell  an  excursion  when  we  had  cut  six  sections  from 
a  tree  with  the  cross-cut  saw.  It  went  like  the  wind.  Then  with 
cheese,  chocolate,  and  Swedish  hard  bread  in  my  pocket  for  a  lunch 
we  started  for  the  lowest  ridge  of  the  island  that  overlooks  the  east. 
We  had  always  believed  this  to  be  a  short  and  easy  ascent  until  one 
day  just  before  supper  we  tried  it  in  a  forced  march  and  found, 
after  the  greatest  exertions  in  climbing,  that  the  ridge  lay  still  the 
good  part  of  an  hour's  climb  above  us. 

So  to-day,  though  we  chose  our  path  more  wisely,  it  proved  hard 
climbing  along  rough  stream  beds,  across  innumerable  fallen  trees, 
through  alder,  bramble,  and  blueberry  thickets,  and  always  with  the 
soft,  oozy  moss  underfoot.  But  we  reached  the  top — steep  to  the  very 
edge.  Suddenly  the  trees  ended,  the  land  ended, — falling  sheer 
away  four  hundred  feet  below  us;  and  we  stood  in  wonder  looking 

36 


AIN    TORRENTS 


ARRIVAL 

down  and  out  over  a  smooth  green  floor  of  sea  and  a  fairyland  of 
mountains,  peaks  and  gorges,  and  headlands  that  cast  long  purple 
shadows  on  the  green  water.  Clouds  wreathed  the  mountains,  snow 
was  on  their  tops,  and  in  the  clear  atmosphere  both  the  land  and  the 
sea  were  marvelous  for  the  beauty  of  their  infinite  detail.  Tiny  white 
crested  wavelets  patterned  the  water's  surface  with  the  utmost  pre- 
cision and  regularity;  and  the  land  invited  one  to  its  smooth  and 
mossy  slopes,  its  dark  enchanted  forests,  its  still  coves  and  sheltered 
valleys,  its  nobly  proportioned  peaks.    It  was  a  rare  hour  for  us  two. 

We  then  followed  the  ridge  toward  the  south  walking  in  the 
smoothly  trodden  paths  of  the  porcupines.  It  led  us  up  the  lofty  hill 
on  the  east  side  of  the  island  between  its  two  coves.  But  the  steep- 
ness of  the  ascent  and  the  matted  thickets  of  storm-dwarfed  alders 
that  were  in  our  way  were  too  much,  I  thought,  for  Rockwell,  and 
after  going  some  distance  farther  alone  I  returned  to  him  and  we 
started  homewards. 

Once  on  the  mountain  side  we  sat  down  in  the  moss  and  mountain 
cranberry  to  rest.  And  all  at  once  we  saw  a  great  old  porcupine  come 
clambering  up  the  hill  a  short  way  from  us.  I  spoke  to  him  in  his  own 
whiny-moany  language  and  he  was  much  pleased ;  he  sat  up,  listened, 
and  then  came  almost  straight  toward  us.  I  continued  talking  to  him 
until  after  several  corrections  of  his  course — determined  upon  by 
sitting  up  and  listening — he  arrived  within  four  or  five  feet  of  Rock- 
well, and  sat  up  again. 

We  could  hardly  keep  from  laughing,  he  looked  so  foolish.  But 
he  sensed  things  to  be  wrong,  dropped  down,  elevated  his  quills, 
then  turned  and  started  off.  Somehow  I  couldn't  let  him  go  without 
annoying  him;  so,  grabbing  a  stick  I  pursued  him  poking  at  him  to 
collect  a  few  quills.  But  at  this  Rockwell  set  up  such  a  shrieking  and 
wailing  that  I  had  to  stop, — and  finally  apologized  profusely  and  ex- 
plained that  I  meant  no  harm  to  the  sweet  creature.    Rockwell  madly 

39 


WILDERNESS 

loves  wild  animals,  has  not  the  slightest  fear  of  them,  and  would  really, 
I  believe,  try  out  his  theory  of  calming  the  anger  of  a  bear  by  kissing 
him. 

Then  we  came  home  and  had  a  good  dinner.  I  cut  more  wood  and 
at  last,  after  one  month  here  on  the  island,  I  PAINTED.  It  was  a 
stupid  sketch,  but  no  matter,  I've  begun!  A  weasel  came  out  and 
looked  at  me  as  I  worked,  then  whisked  off.  The  magpies  look  into 
our  trap,  squint  at  the  food,  and  then  at  once  leave  that  neighborhood. 
It  is  cloudy  and  rainlike  to-night.  Is  it  too  much  to  hope  for  more 
than  one  fair  day? 


40 


^^^M^> 


CHAPTER  in 
CHORES 

Tuesday,  October  first. 

(O-DAY  it  rained!    We  attended  first  to  our  fascinating 

chores,  plying  the  cross-cut  saw  as  the  drizzle  fell. 

A  Then  we  went  to  work  as  artists,  Rockwell  with  his 

^^1^^      water  colors  and  I  with  my  oils.     Rockwell  has  a 

number  of  good  drawings  of  the  country  here  and  of 

the  things  that  have  thrilled  him. 

Pop !  The  cork  of  my  jug  of  new  made  yeast  has  just  struck  the 
ceiling.  That  brew  has  been  a  part  of  this  day's  work.  Hops,  pota- 
toes, flour,  sugar,  raisins,  and  yeast;  stewed  and  strained  and  bottled. 
To-day  also  was  completed  and  served  the  first 


Fox  Island  Corn  Souffle 

"  Take  two  cups  of  samp  (whole  hominy)  and  stew  for  an  indefinite  time 
in  salted  water  (it  should  cook  at  least  three  or  four  hours).    It  should 

41 


WILDERNESS 

boil  almost  dry.  Make  of  the  remainder  of  the  water  and  some  milk  two 
cups  of  cream  sauce  dissolving  in  it  some  cheese.  Mix  with  the  corn  and 
pour  into  a  baking  dish.  Spread  cheese  over  the  top  and  put  into  oven  to 
brown.  " 

We  offer  this  delicious  discovery  to  the  world  on  the  condition 
only  that  "  Fox  Island  Corn  Souffle  "  shall  be  printed  on  the  menu 
wherever  it  is  used. 

I  made  to-day  a  grandfather's  chair  for  myself.  It  is  as  comfort- 
able as  it  is  beautiful. 

Every  day  I  read  in  the  "  History  of  Irish  Literature.  "  The 
Deirdre  Saga  I  read  to-day.  It  must  be  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and 
the  most  perfect  stories  in  all  the  world.  So  little  do  we  feel  ourselves 
related,  here  in  this  place,  to  any  one  time  or  to  any  civilization  that 
at  a  thought  we  and  our  world  become  whom  and  what  we  please. 
Rockwell  has  been  a  cave  dweller  hunting  the  primeval  forest  with 
a  stone  hatchet  and  a  bow  of  alder  strung  with  a  root.  To  me  it  is  the 
heroic  age  in  Ireland. 

Wednesday,  October  second. 

Incessant,  hard  rain.  The  two  artists  at  their  work  a  good  part 
of  the  day,  Rockwell  making  several  new  drawings  in  his  book  of 
wonderful  animals.  We  bathed  and  I  washed  the  accumulated 
clothes  of  several  weeks.  And  to-night  Olson  came  for  a  long  call. 
He's  a  good  story  teller  and  his  experiences  are  without  end.  And  so 
closes  this  day — with  the  rain  still  pouring  monotonously  on  the  roof. 

Thursday,  October  third. 

To-day  was  fair  at  sunrise,  cloudy  at  nine  o'clock,  and  showery 
all  the  rest.  We  worked  again  with  the  beloved  cross-cut  saw, 
setting  ourselves  an  almost  unattainable  task — and  then  surpass- 

42 


DAY 


e 


CHORES 

ing  it.  And  I  cleared  the  thicket  for  a  better  view  of  the  mountain 
to  the  south ;  and  in  the  afternoon  felled  another  large  tree.  Stretched 
canvass  for  a  while;  and  painted  and  drew,  and  felt  the  goddess 
Inspiration  returning  to  me. 

Olson,  Rockwell,  and  I,  with  levers  and  blocks,  turned  aud 
emptied  the  three  boats  that  the  recent  rains  had  almost  filled. 
Already  we  fear  the  frost.  The  mountains  have  been  capped  with 
snow,  all  green  has  gone  from  their  sides;  the  dark  season  is  near 
at  hand. 

Rockwell  is  ever  sweet,  industrious,  and  happy.  He  is  beautiful 
after  his  bath. 


Friday,  October  fourth. 

A  gloriously  lovely  day,  a  cloudless  sky  and  the  wind  in  the 
north.  That  puts  life  into  men!  Up  at  sunrise,  we  two.  Before 
breakfast  the  axe  was  going,  and  afterwards  we  brought  down  two 
mighty  trees.  (The  trees  of  this  part  of  Alaska  are  not  to  be  com- 
pared with  the  giants  of  the  Western  States.  Two  feet  is  a  large 
diameter.)  Then  I  painted  for  a  while  futilely,  the  green  and  wind 
blown  sea,  the  pink  mountains,  snowy  peaks,  and  golden  morning 
sky. 

Rockwell  and  I  couldn't  restrain  our  spirits  and  had  to  clamber 
up  the  steep  mountain  side ;  up,  up  we  went  straight  above  our  clear- 
ings ;  and  soon,  in  looking  back,  the  bay,  the  lake,  and  our  neck  of  land 
lay  like  a  map  below  us.  Cliffs  and  the  steep  slopes  baffled  us  at  times 
but  we  found  a  way  at  last  to  reach  the  peak  of  the  spur  above  us. 
There  it  was  like  a  pavilion,  a  round  knoll  carpeted  with  moss,  a  ring 
of  slender,  clean-trunked  trees ;  and  beyond  that  nothing  nearer  than 
the  sea  nine  hundred  feet  below.  Coming  down  we  ran  across  a 
porcupine  toiling  up  the  slope.    We  played  with  him  a  bit  and  finally 

45 


WILDERNESS 

let  him  climb  a  tree.    Olson  would  have  had  us  bring  him  home  for 
dinner.    They're  said  to  taste  good. 

We  cut  with  the  saw  a  while  in  the  afternoon.  Rockwell  drew  and 
I  made  two  more  sketches — one  a  good  one.  The  evening  at  sun- 
down was  more  brilliant  even  than  the  day.  For  such  days  as  this 
we  have  come  to  Alaska ! 

Saturday,  October  fifth. 

A  hard  day  full  of  little  bits  of  work.  Sawed  up  a  tree  alone, — to 
punish  Rockwell !  for  not  studying.  Calking  the  east  side  of  the  cabin 
— the  last  side.  Painted,  baked,  and  built  myself  an  arrangement 
out-of-doors  to  sketch  in  comfort.  I  sit  on  the  board  with  my  palette 
— a  box  end — secured  before  me  and  my  picture  above  it.  Rockwell 
took  his  punishment  so  to  heart  that  in  the  afternoon  he  read  ten 
pages  in  his  book.  All  of  to-day  has  been  overcast,  but  with  a  clean, 
refreshing  atmosphere.  In  the  account  of  Anson's  voyage  around  the 
Horn  it  is  remarked  that  fair  weather  in  those  latitudes  rarely  lasts. 
It  may  be  true  of  the  same  latitudes  north. 

Monday,  October  seventh. 

Yesterday  I  wrote  nothing  in  the  diary — there  was  nothing  to 
write,  but  that  it  rained.  "  Rain  like  Hell  "  Olson's  journal  doubtless 
reads, — and  ditto  for  to-day. 

The  storm  is  even  harder  now.  The  wind  strikes  our  cabin  first 
from  the  west,  then  north,  east,  and  south.  The  surface  of  the  cove 
is  seething  under  the  cross  squalls;  that  is  called  the  "  wullys.  "  A 
boat  not  strongly  managed  would  be  whipped  round  and  round. 
Olson  has  been  much  in  to  see  us,  lonely  old  man !  I  drop  my  draw- 
ing while  he  is  here  and  take  to  stretching  canvass,  all  the  while 
yarning  with  him.    Rockwell  likes  the  calls  as  a  diversion.    Rock- 

46 


NIGHT 


CHORES 

well's  good  humor  and  contentment  is  without  limit.  He  draws  with 
the  deepest  interest  hours  a  day,  reads  for  a  time,  and  plays — talking 
to  himself. 

We  have  good  hearty  fights  together  in  which  Rockwell  attacks 
me  with  all  his  strength  and  I  hit  back  with  force  in  self-defense. 
We  have  a  good  time  washing  dishes,  racing, — the  washer,  myself, 
to  beat  the  dryer.  Rockwell  falls  down  onto  the  floor  in  the  midst  of 
the  race  in  a  fit  of  laughter.  Rockwell's  happiness  is  not  complete 
until  I  spank  him.  I  grab  the  struggling  creature  and  throw  him  down, 
trying  to  hold  both  his  hands  and  feet  to  have  free  play  in  beating 
him.  This  I  do  with  some  strength  sometimes  using  a  stick  of  kindling 
wood.  The  more  it  hurts  the  better  Rockwell  likes  it — up  to  a  limit 
that  we  never  reach. 

So  much  for  the  day's  play.  Of  our  work  mine  is  mostly 
over  the  drawing  table.  Both  yesterday  and  to-day  I  made  good 
drawings;  and  my  ideas  come  crowding  along  fast.  Cooking, 
somehow,  is  the  least  troublesome  of  all  the  daily  chores.  We 
live,  as  may  be  imagined,  with  a  simplicity  that  would  send  a 
Hoover  delegate  flying  from  the  door  in  dismay.  This  is  our 
daily  fare: 

BREAKFAST 

(invariably  the  same) 

Oatmeal 

Cocoa 

Bread  and  Peanut  Butter 

DINNER 

Beans  (one  of  several  kinds  and  several  ways) 

or 
Fox  Island  Corn  Souffle 

49 


WILDERNESS 

or 
Spaghetti 

or 
Peas 

or 
Vegetable  stew  (barley,  carrots,  onions,  potatoes) 

and 
Potatoes  or  rice 

and  (often) 
Prunes  or  apricots  or  apples  (dried) 

SUPPER 

(invariably  the  same) 
Farina 

Corn  bread  with  peanut  butter  or  marmalade 
Tea  for  father,  milk  for  son 

And  sometimes  dessert — stewed  fruit,  chocolate,  or,  when  Olson 
gives  it,  goat  milk  junket. 

Let  us  here  record  that  to  this  date  we  have  had  not  the  least  little 
sickness, — only  glowing  health  and  good  spirits. 

Tuesday,  October  eighth. 

RAIN !  But  what  difference  does  it  make  to  us.  Everyone  is  in  a 
good  humor.  The  house  is  warm  and  dry;  we've  lots  to  eat  and  lots 
to  do. 

Olson's  dory  was  again  half  full  of  water  so  we  turned  her  and  the 
skiff  over.  I  stretched  canvass  and  primed  it  and  finished  Anson's 
"  Voyage  Around  the  World  "a  thrilling  book.  Late  this  afternoon  it 
began  to  clear ;  the  sun  shone  and  we  were  presently  at  work  with  the 
saw — only  to  be  driven  in  again  by  the  shower.    I  expect  fair  weather 

to-morrow.    But 

50 


WILDERNESS 


CHORES 

Wednesday,  October  ninth. 

Fair  weather  is  still  as  far  away  as  ever,  unless  a  sharp  but  cloudy 
afternoon  and  sundown  with  brilliant  light  in  the  western  sky  spell 
change.  Olson  says  the  foxes  will  not  eat  to-night  and  that  this  is 
invariably  a  sign  of  change  to  good  days — that  in  bad  weather  they 
eat  and  in  fair  they  abstain.  It  poured  in  the  morning  and  we  worked 
indoors.  After  dinner  we  all  moved  a  lumber  pile  that  stood  on  the 
shore  abreast  of  our  cabin  to  a  place  nearer  Olson's — this  only  to 
better  our  view  of  the  water.  We  sawed  wood  for  a  while  and  piled 
all  that  we  have  so  far  cut  ready  for  winter  use.  There  are  in  all 
fifty  sections  of  short  stove  wood.  That  is  a  month  and  a  half's  supply. 
I  painted  towards  evening,  and  made  two  good  sketches. 

The  nights  have  grown  colder.  For  the  past  two  days  the  moun- 
tains across  from  us,  the  nearest  ones,  have  been  covered  with  snow 
downwards  to  half  their  height.  The  farther  ranges  have  for  weeks 
been  white.  They're  beautiful  and  invite  one  to  go  climbing  and 
sliding  over  their  smooth  white  snowfields.  Close  to,  one  would 
find  impassable  crags  and  crevasses,  a  howling  wind  and  bitter  cold. 
Rockwell  to-day  finished  his  second  book,  "  The  Cave  Dwellers.  " 

Midnight  Bulletin :  the  stars  are  out,  brilliant  in  a  cloudless  sky ! 

Thursday,  October  tenth. 

It's  raining !  All  day  has  been  overcast,  but  sharp  and  clear.  It 
was  for  us  all  a  day  of  hard  work.  We  cleared  up  the  woods  between 
Olson's  cabin  and  ours  carrying  one  large  pile  of  brush  from  our  door 
yard  to  the  beach  and  burning  another  huge  one.  That  was  a  wild 
sight  as  night  came.  It  had  become  a  great  fire  of  logs  burning  stead- 
ily and  lighting  up  all  the  woods  around.  It  is  still  burning  in  the 
pouring  rain.  We  sawed  a  little — always  more  than  keeping  pace  with 
our  consumption  of  wood.  Rockwell  worked  almost  the  whole  day  and 
went  to  bed  tired.    I  read  to  him  an  hour.    He  loves  to  hear  poetry. 

53 


WILDERNESS 

We  set  an  elaborate  contrivance  to  catch  a  magpie;  and  were 
humiliated  by  the  bird  who  walked  round  and  round  the  snare  eying 


ONE  OF  ROCKWELL'S  DRAWINGS 

it  wisely,  then  suddenly  rushed  in  only  far  enough  to  secure  a  piece 
of  decoy  bait — and  fled.  Painted  to-day  making  a  good  little  sketch, 
but,  on  my  first  trial  of  the  home-made  canvas,  finding  it  to  need 
more  priming.    Work !  work ! 

Friday,  October  eleventh. 

This  day  we  should  have  been  in  Seward.  It  was  calm  although 
it  rained  from  time  to  time.  Olson  offered  to  tow  us  across  to  Caine's 
Head ;  but,  the  rain  coming  up  as  we  were  about  to  start  in  the  morn- 
ing, we  waited  till  afternoon,  started,  proceeded  half  a  mile,  en- 
countered engine  trouble,  and  finally  ignominiously  rowed  home,  I 
pulling  Olson  and  his  motor  and  Rockwell  bringing  in  our  own  dory. 
If  it  had  not  been  so  late  we  would  have  kept  on. 

54 


CHORES 

We  have  a  magpie.  I  saw  one  hop  into  Olson's  shed,  quickly  ran 
and  closed  the  door,  and  there  he  was.  Now  he's  in  a  box-trap  cage 
set  on  a  specially  constructed  shelf  on  our  front  gable.  He's  a  garru- 
lous creature  and  bites  angrily;  but  he's  a  youngster  and  we  hope  to 
teach  him  to  say  all  sorts  of  pretty  things;  Olson  says  they  take 
naturally  to  swearing.    So  Rockwell  has  at  last  a  pet. 

If  only  it  will  hold  calm!  To-night  it  is  fair  and  starlight — but 
we  can  never  be  sure  of  the  weather's  constancy.  We  hold  every- 
thing in  readiness  to  start  in  the  morning. 

Saturday,  October  twelfth. 

A  mild  and  lovely  day  on  our  island  but  in  the  bay  a  breeze  from 
the  north  that  would  have  made  our  rowing  to  Seward  difficult. 
Still  we  wait  with  our  things  assembled  for  the  trip.  We  shall  go  at 
the  very  first  good  chance.  This  morning  Olson  cleared  the  limbs 
from  the  trees  about  us  to  ten  or  twelve  feet  from  the  ground.  Only 
the  tall,  clean  trunks  are  now  between  us  and  our  mountains  across 
the  bay.  I  painted  most  of  the  afternoon.  My  canvas  is  still  quite 
impossible — rough  and  absorbent.  We  built  a  large  cage  for  the 
magpie  he  was  so  restless  in  his  small  one.  And  now  he's  quite 
contented. 

Rockwell  said  to-day  that  he  would  like  to  live  here  always. 
That  when  he  was  grown  he'd  come  here  with  his  many  children  and 
me,  if  I  was  not  dead,  and  stay.  It  is  hard  to  write,  it  is  hard  to  work, 
with  the  trip  to  Seward  at  hand.  Olson  says  it  is  Sunday.  I  think 
he's  right.      Somehow  I've  missed  a  day. 

Sunday,  October  thirteenth. 

(I  still  keep  to  my  chronology  until  we  find  out  from  Seward  where 
we  stand.)     A  wonderfully  beautiful  day  with  a  raging  northwest 

55 


WILDERNESS 

wind.  I  must  sometime  honor  the  northwest  wind  in  a  great  picture 
as  the  embodiment  of  clean,  strong,  exuberant  life,  the  joy  of  every 
young  thing,  bearing  energy  on  its  wings  and  the  will  to  triumph. 
How  I  remember  at  Monhegan  on  such  a  day,  when  it  seemed  that 
every  living  thing  must  emerge  from  its  house  or  its  hole  or  its  nest 
to  breathe  the  clean  air  and  exult  in  it;  when  men  could  stand  on  the 
hilltops  and  look  far  over  the  green  sea  and  the  distant  land  and 
delight  in  the  infinite  detail  of  the  view,  discerning  distant  ships 
at  sea  and  remote  blue  islands,  and,  over  the  land,  sparkling  cities 
and  such  enchanting  forests  and  pastures  that  the  spirit  leaped  the 
intervening  miles  and  with  a  new  delight  claimed  the  whole  earth  to 
the  farthest  mountains — and  beyond ;  on  such  a  day  there  crept  from 
his  hole  an  artist,  and,  shading  his  squinting  eyes  with  his  hand, 
saluted  the  day  with  a  groan.  "  How  can  one  paint?  "  he  said,  "  such 
sharpness !  Here  is  no  mystery,  no  beauty.  "  And  he  crept  back,  this 
fog  lover,  to  wait  for  earth's  sick  spell  to  return. 

This  morning  the  magpie  sang — or  recited  poetry ;  he  made  strange 
glad  noises  in  his  throat — and  that  in  a  cage !  We  worked,  the  rest 
of  us,  like  mad.  At  five-thirty  Olson,  resting  at  last,  said :  "  Well, 
you've  done  a  great  day's  work.  "  And  after  that  I  painted  a  sketch, 
cut  and  trimmed  three  small  spruce  trees;  and  then,  it  being  dark, 
prepared  supper. 

But  when  do  we  go  to  Seward?  My  bag  is  packed.  Olson  begins 
each  day  by  testing  his  motor.  The  wind  must  moderate  in  time. 
We  see  it  pass  our  cove  driving  the  water  as  in  a  mill-race.  To-day 
it  swept  the  cove  itself. 

Rockwell  went  for  a  walk  in  the  woods ;  he  has  a  delightful  time 
on  his  rambles,  discovering  goats'  wool  on  the  bushes,  following  the 
paths  of  the  porcupines  to  their  holes,  and  to-day  finding  the  porcu- 
pine himself.  He  always  returns  with  some  marvelous  discovery  or 
new  enthusiasm  over  his  explorations.    He  has  been  practicing  writ- 

56 


SUNRISE 


CHORES 

ing  to-day.  He  says  that  if  he  could  only  write  he  would  put  down 
the  wonderful  stories  of  his  dreams.  These  stories  would  run  into 
volumes. 

Tuesday,  October  fifteenth. 

Yesterday  we  left  the  island.  The  day  was  calm  though  cloudy, 
and  at  times  it  rained.  Olson  towed  us  to  Caine's  Head.  From  there 
we  made  good  time  Rockwell  rowing  like  a  seasoned  oarsman,  as 
indeed  he  has  now  a  right  to  be  called.  We  stopped  at  the  camp 
where  we  had  in  August  left  our  broken-down  engine,  and  brought 
that  away  with  us,  as  well  as  some  turnips  and  half  a  dozen  heads  of 
beautiful  lettuce  grown  on  that  spot. 

By  night  it  was  raining  hard  and  blowing  from  the  southeast. 
We  spent  the  evening  at  the  postmaster's  house,  playing,  I,  on  the 
flute  to  Miss  Postmaster's  accompaniment.  It  went  splendidly  and 
until  midnight  we  played  Beethoven,  Bach,  Hayden,  Gluck,  Tchaikow- 
sky,  till  it  seemed  like  old  times  at  home.  Then  Rockwell  with  his 
eyes  shut  in  sleep,  consumed  a  piece  of  apricot  pie  and  a  glass  of 
milk,  and  we  came  home  bringing  along  two  glasses  of  wild  currant 
preserve.  I  read  my  letters  over  and  then  went  to  bed.  But  the 
storm  raged  by  that  time  and  I  couldn't  sleep  for  worry  about  my 
boat.  At  last  I  rose  and  dressed  and  went  down  to  the  shore.  The 
dory  was  safely  stranded  but  too  low  down.  So  with  great  toil  I 
worked  her  higher  up  the  beach  beyond  high  water. 

To-day  it  has  rained  incessantly.  I  have  bought  a  few  odd  sup- 
plies and  registered  for  the  draft. 

Above  all  to-day  the  engine  has  resumed  its  running  and  we'll 
return  to  Fox  Island  under  power.  I  know  nothing  about  an  engine 
but  I  have  eight  miles  to  learn  in  before  the  only  hazardous  part  of 
the  voyage  begins.  To-night  Rockwell  and  I  spent  the  evening  at  the 
house  of  a  young  man  whom  we've  found  congenial  and  who  above 

59 


WILDERNESS 

all  is  a  friend  of  a  young  German  mechanic  for  whom  I've  a  liking. 
So  the  four  of  us  sang  the  evening  through,  seated  before  a  great 
open  fire.  The  house  is  of  logs  and  stands  out  of  the  town  on  the 
border  of  the  wilderness.  There  are  spots  like  this  little  house  and 
its  hospitable  hearth  that  show  even  the  commercial  desert  of  Seward 
to  have  its  oases.  And  now  we're  in  our  room.  Rockwell  is  asleep  in 
bed.  It  is  past  midnight.  I  am  thinking  of  dear  friends  at  home,  and 
I  bid  them  affectionately  good-night. 

Thursday,  October  seventeenth. 

Yesterday  in  Seward  was  about  as  every  other  day.  We  spent  it 
between  letter-writing  in  our  hotel  room  and  visiting  from  store  to 
store.  It  poured  rain  and  blew  from  the  southeast.  We  spent  our 
evening  with  the  German.  We  have  planned  with  him  to  signal  back 
and  forth  from  Seward,  particularly  to  send  me  the  news  of  peace. 
If  I  can  distinguish,  with  glasses  a  high-powered  electric  light  that  he 
will  show  from  a  house  on  the  highest  point  in  the  town,  then,  by 
means  of  the  Morse  code  with  which  I  am  furnished  and  which  he 
knows,  I'll  receive  messages  on  appointed  days. 

To-night  Rockwell  and  I  went  a  quarter  of  a  mile  down  our  beach 
to  a  point  that  commands  a  view  up  the  bay  to  Seward  and  lighted  a 
bonfire  there.  Boehm,  the  German,  was  regarding  us,  we  presume, 
through  a  telescope.  On  Sunday  night,  if  it  is  clear,  we  are  to  look 
for  his  light.    The  difficulty  will  be  to  distinguish  it  from  others. 

We  left  Seward  this  morning  at  9.45,  our  dory  laden  with  about 
one  thousand  pounds  of  freight — including  ourselves.  The  little 
three  and  one  half  horse-power  motor  worked  splendidly  and  carried 
us  to  the  island  in  a  little  over  two  and  a  quarter  hours.  The  day  was 
calm,  to  begin  with,  with  a  rising  north  wind  as  we  crossed  from 
Caine's  Head.  On  the  island  we  found  a  visitor.  There  had  been  two 
other  men  but  they  were  gone  to  Seward  the  night  before.    All  had 

60 


J)VENTURE 


CHORES 

been  on  Monday  forced  by  the  rough  sea  to  turn  back  from  attempt- 
ing to  go  around  the  westward  cape.  The  old  fellow  who  is  still  here 
told  me  to-night  that  in  the  twenty  years  that  he  had  been  in  Alaska 
he  had  never  seen  such  weather.  That's  good  news.  At  Seward  the 
mountains  are  covered  with  snow  to  within  a  few  hundred  feet  of  the 
town's  level.  I'm  tired.  This  ends  to-day.  Incidentally  my  dates 
proved  to  be  correct  when  I  reached  Seward. 

Oh,  I've  almost  forgotten  our  loss.  The  poor  magpie  lay  dead  on 
the  floor  of  his  cage.  So  we  found  him,  killed,  I  believe,  by  the  storm, 
for  Olson  neglected  to  cover  him.  Rockwell,  who  straight  on  landing 
had  run  there,  wept  bitterly  but  finally  found  much  consolation  in 
giving  him  a  very  decent  burial  and  marking  the  spot  with  a  wooden 
cross. 

Friday,  October  eighteenth. 

The  night  is  beautiful  beyond  thought.  All  the  bay  is  flooded  with 
moonlight  and  in  that  pale  glow  the  snowy  mountains  appear  whiter 
than  snow  itself.  The  full  moon  is  almost  straight  above  us,  and 
shining  through  the  tree  tops  into  our  clearing  makes  the  old  stumps 
quite  lovely  with  its  quiet  light.  And  the  forest  around  is  as  black  as 
the  abyss.  Although  it  is  nearly  ten  o'clock  Rockwell  is  still  awake. 
It  is  bis  birthday — by  our  choice.  His  one  present,  a  cheap  child's 
edition  of  Wood's  "  Natural  History,"  illustrated,  has  filled  his  head 
with  dreams  of  his  beloved  wild  animals.  I  began  to-night  to  teach 
him  to  sing.  We  tried  Brahms's  "  Wiegenlied,"  with  little  success, 
and  then  "Schlaf,  Kindlein,  Schlaf,"  which  went  better.  These 
songs  and  many  other  German  songs,  all  with  English  words,  are  in 
the  song  book  I  bought  him.  I  hope  I  shall  have  the  patience  and 
the  time  to  succeed  with  Rockwell  in  this. 

Three  men  are  now  with  Olson  in  his  cabin,  for  the  two  who  were 
gone  to  Seward  returned  to-day.   They  are  younger  men,  one  of  them 

63 


WILDERNESS 

Emsweiler  a  well-known  guide  of  this  country.  I  spent  an  interesting 
hour  with  them  this  evening.  Olson  told  me  to-day  that  his  age  is 
seventy-one.  The  smell  of  fresh  bread  is  in  our  cabin,  for  I  baked 
to-day.  Baking,  wood-cutting,  darning  of  socks,  putting  the  cabin 
in  order,  and  the  building  of  a  shelf,  these,  with  the  other  usual  chores, 
were  the  whole  day's  work;  a  profitless  day  lies  on  my  conscience. 
I  shall  draw  a  little  and  then  go  to  bed. 

Saturday,  October  nineteenth. 

To-day  was  raw  and  cloudy,  mild  and  sunny ;  in  the  morning  windy, 
in  the  afternoon  dead  calm  so  that  the  hills  were  reflected  in  the  bay. 
The  men  have  left,  I  am  glad  to  say,  not  that  they  were  in  themselves 
at  all  objectionable,  but  it  somehow  did  violence  to  the  quiet  of  this 
place  to  have  others  about.  Emsweiler  slaughtered  one  of  the  goats 
for  Olson,  so  there's  now  one  less  of  us  here.  I  felled  a  large  tree 
to-day  and  later  sharpened  the  cross-cut  saw  preparatory  to  cutting  it 
up.  To-night  the  sun  set  in  the  utmost  splendor  and  left  in  its  wake 
blazing,  fire-red  clouds  in  a  sky  of  luminous  green.  Not  many  more 
days  shall  we  see  the  sun;  it  sets  now  close  to  the  southern  headland 
of  our  cove. 

Rockwell  works  every  day  on  his  wild  animal  book.  To  obtain 
absolutely  new  and  original  names  for  his  strange  creatures  he  has 
devised  an  interesting  method.  With  eyes  closed  he  prints  a  name  or 
rather  a  group  of  miscellaneous  letters.  Naturally  the  result  he  per- 
ceives on  opening  his  eyes  is  astonishing. 

Sunday,  October  twentieth. 

It  has  been  a  beautiful,  clear,  cold,  violent  northwest  day.  I've 
painted  on  and  off  all  day  with  wood  cutting  between.  One  can't 
stop  going  in  such  weather,  and  out-of-doors  you  can't  stand  still  for 
it  is  too  icy  cold  and  windy. 

64 


CHORES 

Rockwell  and  I  have  just  now,  eight  o'clock,  returned  from  down 
the  beach  where  we  went  to  look  for  lights  from  Seward.  But  we 
could  distinguish  nothing  meant  for  us.  The  moon  has  risen  and 
illuminates  the  mountain  tops — but  we  and  all  our  cove  are  still  in 
the  deep  shadow  of  the  night.  It  is  most  dramatic ;  the  spruces  about 
us  deepen  the  shadow  to  black  while  above  them  the  stone  faces  of 
the  mountain  glisten  and  the  sky  has  the  brightness  of  a  kind  of 


day.    Olson  brought  us  goat  chops  for  dinner.   We  could  not  have  told 
them  from  lamb. 

This  afternoon  late  a  small  power  boat  appeared  in  the  bay  at- 
tempting to  make  its  way  toward  Seward.  After  some  progress  the 
wind  forced  her  steadily  and  swiftly  back.  When  we  last  saw  her 
she  seemed  to  be  trying  to  make  the  shelter  of  our  island  or  one  of  the 
outer  islands,  the  while  driving  steadily  seaward.  It's  a  wild  night 
to  be  out  in  the  bay  though  doubtless  calm  at  sea.  It  is  such  an  ad- 
venture that  we  must  be  on  our  guard  against.  As  we  look  across  the 
bay  toward  Bear  Glacier,  which  is  hidden  by  a  point  of  land,  we  can 
see  the  effect  of  the  north  wind  sweeping  down  the  glacier,  a  mist 

65 


WILDERNESS 

driving  seaward.     It  is  nothing  less  than  the  fine   spray  of  that 
wind-swept  water. 

Monday,  October  twenty-first. 

It  is  so  late  that  I  shall  write  only  a  little.  To-day  was  again  won- 
derful, a  true  golden  and  blue  northwest  day.  I  have  painted  and 
sawed  wood,  and  built  myself  a  splendid  six-legged  saw  horse.  Olson 
thinks  I  have  already  cut  my  winter's  supply  of  wood — but  it  seems 
to  me  far  from  it.  Rockwell  has  been  most  of  the  day  at  his  own 
animal  book,  making  some  strange  and  beautiful  birds.  This  morn- 
ing the  ground  was  frozen  with  a  hard  crust.  It  did  not  thaw  through- 
out the  day,  and  again  to-night  it  is  very  cold.  Winter  is  at  last  upon 
us,  the  long,  long  winter.  And  the  sun  retreats  day  by  day  farther 
toward  the  mountain.  I  look  to  the  sun's  going  with  a  kind  of  dread. 
We  have  seen  nothing  of  the  boat  that  last  night  was  driven  to  shelter. 
We  believe  the  men  to  be  in  Hie  other  cove  of  our  island. 


66 


CHAPTER  IV 


WINTER 


eNDLESSLY,  day  after  day,  the  journal  goes  on  record- 
ing a  dreary  monotony  of  rain  and  cloud.  Who  has 
ever  dwelt  so  entirely  alone  that  the  most  living  things 
in  all  the  universe  about  are  wind  and  rain  and  snow? 
Where  the  elements  dominate  and  control  your  life, 
where  at  getting  up  and  bedtime  and  many  an  hour  of  night  and  day 
between  you  question  helplessly,  as  a  poor  slave  his  master,  the  will 
of  the  mighty  forces  of  the  sky?  Dawn  breaks,  you  jump  from  bed, 
stand  barefoot  on  the  threshold  of  the  door,  look  through  the  straight 
trunked  spruces  at  the  brightening  world,  and  read  at  sight  God's 
will  for  one  more  whole,  long  day  of  life.  "  Ah  God !  it  rains  again." 
And  sitting  on  the  bed  you  wearily  draw  on  your  heavy  boots,  and 
rainy-spirited  begin  the  special  labors  of  a  rainy  day.  Or  maybe,  at 
the  sight  of  clouds  again,  you  laugh  at  the  dull-minded  weather  man 
or  curse  at  him  good  naturedly.     Still  you  must  do  those  rainy- 

67 


WILDERNESS 

weather  chores  and  all  the  other  daily  chores  in  hot  wet-weather 
garments.    That  is  destiny. 

Most  of  the  time,  to  do  ourselves  real  justice,  we  met  the  worst  of 
weather  with  a  battle  cry,  worked  hard, — and  then  made  up  for  out- 
door dreariness  and  wet  by  heaping  on  the  comforts  of  indoors, — dry, 
cozy  warmth,  good  things  to  eat,  and  lots  to  do. 

We  have  reached  late  fall — for  northern  latitudes.  The  sky  is 
brooding  ominously,  heavy,  dull,  and  raw.  Winter  seems  to  be  closing 
in  upon  us.  We're  driven  to  work  as  if  in  fear.  Hurry,  hurry!  Saw 
the  great  drums  of  spruce,  roll  them  over  the  ground  and  stack  them 
high.  Calk  tight  with  hemp  the  cabin's  windward  eaves  so  that  no 
breath  of  wind  can  enter  there  and  freeze  the  food  inside  upon  the 
shelf.  Set  up  the  far-famed  air-tight  stove  where  it  will  keep  you 
warm, — warm  feet  in  bed  and  a  warm  back  while  painting.  Patch 
up  the  poor,  storm-battered  paper  roof, — two  or  three  holes  we  find 
and  we  are  sure  it  leaks  from  twenty.  About  the  cabin  pile  the  hem- 
lock boughs,  dense-leafed  and  warm,  making  a  green  slope  almost 
to  the  eaves.  Now  it  looks  cozy !  Outside  and  in  the  last  is  done  to 
make  us  ready  for  the  winter's  worst,  and  just  in  time !  It  is  the 
evening  of  October  twenty-second  and  the  feathery  snow  has  just 
begun  to  fall.  Olson  comes  stamping  in.  "  Well,  well,  "  he  cries, 
"  how's  this !  How  does  our  winter  suit  you?  "  It  suits  us  perfectly. 
The  house  is  warm,  Rockwell's  in  bed,  and  I  am  reading  "  Treasure 
Island"  to  him. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  make  of  him?  "  asked  Olson  that  night 
speaking  of  Rockwell.  I  was  at  that  moment  pouring  beans  into  the 
pot  for  baking.    I  slowed  the  stream  and  dropped  them  one  by  one : 

"  '  Rich-man,  poor-man,  beggar-man,  thief, 
Doctor,  lawyer,  merchant,  chief. ' 

How  in  the  world  can  anyone  lay  plans  for  a  youngster's  life  ?  " 

68 


•N  THE   HEIGHT 


WINTER 

Rockwell  lay  in  his  bed  dreaming,  maybe,  of  an  existence  love- 
lier far  than  anything  the  poor,  discouraged  imagination  of  a 
man  could  reach.  A  child  could  make  a  paradise  of  earth. 
Life  is  so  simple !  Unerringly  he  follows  his  desires  making  the 
greatest  choices  first,  then  onward  into  a  narrowing  pathway  until 
the  true  goal  is  reached.  How  can  one  preach  of  beauty  or  teach 
another  wisdom.  These  things  are  of  an  infinite  nature,  and  in 
every  one  of  us  in  just  proportion.  There  is  no  priesthood  of  the 
truth. 

We  live  in  many  worlds,  Rockwell  and  I, — the  world  of  the  books 
we  read, — an  always  changing  one,  "Robinson  Crusoe,"  "Treasure 
Island,"  the  visionary  world  of  William  Blake,  the  Saga  Age,  "Water 
Babies,  "  and  the  glorious  Celtic  past, — Rockwell's  own  world  of 
fancy,  kingdom  of  beasts,  the  world  he  dreams  about  and  draws, — 
and  my  created  land  of  striding  heroes  and  poor  fate-bound 
men— real  as  I  have  painted  them  or  to  me  nothing  is, — and  then  all 
round  about  our  common,  daily,  island-world,  itself  more  wonderful 
than  we  have  half  a  notion  of.  Is  it  to  be  believed  that  we  are  here 
alone,  this  boy  and  I,  far  north  out  on  an  island  wilderness,  seagirt 
on  a  terrific  coast !  It's  as  we  pictured  it  and  wanted  it  a  year  and 
more  ago, — yes,  dreams  come  true. 

And  now  the  snow  falls  softly.  Winter,  to  meet  our  challenge,  has 
begun. 

Short  notes  in  the  journal  mark  "Treasure  Island's"  swift 
passage.  Then  enter  "Water  Babies!"  "Just  after  Rockwell's 
heart  and  mine,"  I  have  recorded  it.  But  Kingsley  must  lose  his 
friends, — a  warning  to  the  snob  in  literature.  How  it  did  weary 
us  and  madden  us,  his  English-gentry  pride, — unless  we  outright 
laughed.  "At  last  it's  finished.  That's  an  event.  When  Kingsley 
isn't  showing  off  he's  moralizing,  and  between  his  religious  cant  and 
his  English  snobbery  he  is,  in  spite  of  his  occasional  sweet  sentiment, 

7i 


WILDERNESS 

quite  unendurable.    So  to-night  we  read  from  '  Andersen's  Fairy 
Tales  ' — forever  lovely  and  true." 

Children  have  their  own  fine  literary  taste  that  we  know  quite  too 
little  about.  They  love  all  real,  authentic  happenings,  and  they  love 
pure  fairy  tale.  But  to  them  fiction  in  the  guise  of  truth  is  wrong,  and 
fairy  romance,  unconvincing  in  its  details,  is  ridiculous.  Action  they 
like,  the  deed — not  thoughts  about  it.  Doubtless  the  simple  saga 
form  is  best  of  all, — life  as  it  happens,  neither  right  nor  wrong,  words 
that  they  can  understand,  things  they  can  comprehend,  interesting 
facts  or  thrilling  fancy.  Such  simple  things  delight  the  child  that 
half  of  "  Robinson  Crusoe  "  and  three  quarters  of  the  smug  family 
from  Switzerland  are  forgiven  for  the  sweet  kernel  of  pure  adventure 
that  is  there. 

As  for  adventure, — that  is  relative.  Where  little  happens  and  the 
gamut  of  expression  is  narrow  life  is  still  full  of  joy  and  sorrow. 
You're  stirred  by  simple  happenings  in  a  quiet  world. 

The  killer-whales  that  early  in  September  played  in  the  shoal 
water  of  our  cove  not  thirty  feet  from  land,  rolled  their  huge,  shining 
bodies  into  view,  plunged,  raced  where  we  still  could  follow  their 
gleaming,  white  patch  under  water,— there's  a  thrill ! 

The  battles  that  occurred  that  month  between  huge  fish  out  in 
the  bay,  their  terrible,  mysterious,  black  arms  that  beat  the  water 
with  a  sound  like  cannon,  the  plunge  into  the  depths  of  the  poor, 
frantic,  wounded  whale,  and  his  return  again  for  air;  again  the 
thunder  sound  and  flying  foam  and  spray  as  the  dread  black  arm  is 
beating  on  the  sea;  then  calm.  You  shudder  at  that  huge  death. 
That  was  a  drama  for  Fox  Islanders. 

And  later  the  poor  magpie's  death.  Real  tears  were  shed  from  a 
poor  boy's  half-broken  heart. 

Two  strangers  come  these  days  and  stop  with  Olson.  They're  on 
the  search  of  that  small  craft  that  we  saw  driving  seaward  in  a  tempest. 

72 


HE   DAY'S   WORK 


WINTER 

There  is  mystery !  Was  she  adrift  unmanned,  broke  from  her  moor- 
ings, or  was  there  life  aboard  as  we  had  thought?  In  that  case  she'd 
been  stolen,  and  who  were  the  men  and  where?  Wrecked  safely  on 
some  island,  drowned,  or  driven  out  to  sea?    No  man  shall  ever  know. 

A  porcupine  is  captured  wandering  near  our  house.  We  build 
for  him  a  cozy  home — he  doesn't  like  it  much  but  still  he  should. 
We  care  for  him  day  after  day,  he  twines  himself,  about  our  hearts. 
Then  at  last  one  day  when  we'd  pastured  him  in  freedom  out  in  the 
new  fallen  snow,  trusting  his  tracks  to  lead  us  to  him,  the  goats  cut 
in  and  spoiled  the  trail  and  he  was  lost  to  us. 

Olson  has  gone  to  Seward:  days  of  waiting,  days  of  waiting! 
How  many  times  do  we  travel  down  the  cove  to  the  point  from  whence 
Caine's  Head  is  seen,  going  in  hope,  returning  gloomily. 

The  goats  beset  us  yearning  for  their  missing  master.  Billy,  that 
maddening  beast,  eats  up  one  corner  of  our  broom.  I  throw  a  heavy 
armful  of  kindling  wood  into  his  face — and  he  just  sneezes.  But 
Rockwell  plays  with  the  goats  as  if  they're  human,  or  rather,  as  if 
he  were  goat.  They  half  believe  it,  he  has  told  me, — and,  Rockwell, 
so  do  I. 

Sunday,  November  third. 

To-day  was  gloriously  bright  and  clear  with  a  strong  northwest 
wind.  The  mountains  are  covered  with  snow,  beautiful  beyond  de- 
scription. I  painted  in-  and  out-of-doors  continuously  all  the  day  ex- 
cept when  Rockwell  and  I  plied  the  saw.  It  is  no  little  thing  to  have 
one's  work  on  a  day  like  this  out  under  such  a  blue  sky,  by  the  foaming 
green  sea  and  the  fairy  mountains. 

Three  days  go  by.  It  rains  and  hails  and  snows,  and  then  is  quiet. 
Over  the  dead,  still  air  comes  the  roar  of  pounding  seas.  Immense 
and  white  they  pile  on  the  black  cliffs  of  Caine's  Head,  the  wash  of  a 
storm  at  sea.    Still  over  the  heaving,  glassy  water  we  look  in  vain  for 

75 


WILDERNESS 

Olson.  Dark  days,  and  the  short  hours  are  long  with  waiting.  How 
many  times  we  traveled  down  the  cove  to  look  toward  Seward,  how 
many  score  of  times  we  peered  through  the  little  panes  of  our  west 
window  never  to  find  the  thing  we  sought  for. 

I've  loaded  my  arms  with  firewood  from  the  pile.  I  turn  my  head 
and  there  in  our  cove  before  my  very  eyes  at  last  is  Olson !  This  is 
November  sixth, — nine  days  away ! 

"  The  war  is  over, "  cried  Olson  as  he  landed.  By  all  that's  holy 
in  life  may  the  world  have  found  through  its  mad  war  at  least  some 
fragrance  of  the  peace  and  freedom  that  we  discovered  growing  like  a 
flower,  wild  on  the  borders  of  the  wilderness.  .  .  . 

Long  into  night  I  read  the  mail,  count  sweaters,  caps,  and  woolen 
stockings,  all  that  the  mail  has  brought.  It  is  late,  Rockwell  is  asleep, 
the  room  is  cold,  it  snows  out-of-doors.  .  .  .  And  now  instead  of 
bed  I'll  stir  the  fire  and  begin  my  work. 

Thursday,  November  seventh. 

A  true  winter's  day  with  the  snow  deep  on  the  ground  and  the 
profound  and  characteristic  winter  silence  of  the  out-of-doors  to  be 
sensed  even  in  this  ever  silent  place.  At  earliest  daylight  began  a 
heavy  thunderstorm  with  lightning  all  about  and  a  downpour  of  hail. 
It  occurred  intermittently  throughout  the  morning.  ...  I  did  the 
washing,  using  Olson's  washboard  and  getting  the  clothes  nearly 
white. 

Olson  is  full  of  amusing  gossip.  To  the  curious  in  Seward  who 
asked  him  why  I  chose  to  be  in  this  God-forsaken  spot  he  replied : 
"  You  damn  fools,  you  don't  understand  an  artist  at  all.  Do  you 
suppose  Shakespeare  wrote  his  plays  with  a  silly  crowd  of  men  and 
women  hanging  around  him?    No,  sir,  an  artist  has  to  be  left  alone." 

"  Well,  what  does  he  paint?  " 

"  That's  his  business.    Sometimes  I  see  he  has  a  mountain  there 

76 


MEAL  TIME 


WINTER 

on  a  picture,  and  next  time  I  see  it's  been  changed  to  a  lake  or  some- 
thing else." 

One  can  imagine  Olson  with  his  questioners.  The  thing  he  most 
wants,  his  ambition,  one  might  say,  is  to  make  people  sit  up  and  take 
notice  of  Fox  Island,  his  homestead.  It  is  in  fact  one  reason  why  he 
brought  us  here  to  live.  Thanks  to  its  amateur  detective,  Seward 
had  rejoiced  for  a  short  time  in  rumors  of  a  German  spy  on  Fox  Island. 
I  told  Olson  that  the  authorities  might  still  come  and  remove  me.  He 
flared  up,  "  I'd  like  to  see  them  try  it !  We  could  take  to  the  moun- 
tains with  guns,  and  more  than  one  of  them  would  never  try  the  thing 
again.  "  And  then  he  went  on  to  tell  me  how  in  Idaho  he  had  tracked 
for  days  and  weeks  a  notorious  gang  of  outlaws  and  horse-thieves 
and  at  last  run  them  to  earth, — one  of  his  most  thrilling  and,  I  believe, 
absolutely  true  stories  of  his  adventures. 

At  this  moment  a  steamer  is  blowing  in  the  bay,  navigating  by  the 
echo  from  the  mountain  faces.  She  is  near  to  us  now  but  hidden 
by  the  snowstorm. 

Rockwell  has  begun  to  write  the  story  of  a  long,  waking  dream  of 
his.  It's  a  sweet  idea  and  reads  most  amusingly  in  his  own  queer 
spelling.  Now,  though  it  is  already  late,  I  must  draw  a  while  longer 
and  then,  after  bathing  in  the  bread  pan,  sit  up  in  bed  and  read  a 
chapter  of  the  life  of  Blake. 

Friday,  November  eighth. 

It  is  so  late  that  I  half  expect  to  see  the  dawn  begin.  I  have  been 
working  on  a  drawing  of  Rockwell  and  his  father — and  it  looks  ever 
so  fine. 

Whew!  just  at  this  moment  the  wind  has  swept  down  upon  our 
cabin  and  blown  the  roof  in  as  far  as  it  would  with  great  creaking 
yield, — and  then  passed  on  sucking  it  out  in  its  wake  to  such  a  spread 
that  a  board  that  lay  across  overhead  like  a  collar-beam  has  fallen 

79 


WILDERNESS 

with  a  crash  and  clatter, — and  Rockwell  sleeps  on !  The  wind  does 
blow  to-night,  and  it  doesn't  stop  outside  the  walls  of  the  cabin 
either.  My  lamp  flutters  annoyingly.  But  ah !  the  room  is  comfort- 
able and  warm. 

This  morning,  it  being  at  first  wondrously  fair,  Rockwell  and  I  set 
out  for  a  boat  ride.  But  what  with  the  fussing  of  installing  our  motor 
and  the  launching  of  our  cumbersome  boat  the  wind  was  given  time 
to  rise  and  spoil  the  day  for  us.  But  we  went  out  into  the  bay  and 
played  in  the  waves  to  see  what  the  north  wind  could  do.  The  chop 
was  devilish,  short  and  deep;  the  boat  bridged  from  one  crest  to 
another  with,  it  seemed,  a  clear  tunnel  underneath, — and  then 
running  up  onto  a  wave  mountain  she  would  jump  off  its  dizzy  peak 
landing  with  a  splash  in  the  valley  beyond  and  dousing  us  well  with 
water.  In  a  calmer  spot  I  stopped  the  engine  and  sketched  our  island ; 
after  which  we  rowed  home.  The  rest  of  the  day  we  worked  on  the 
motor — first  to  find  out  why  she  wouldn't  run,  then,  having  found 
and  fixed  that,  to  put  other  parts  in  still  better  order,  and  then,  by  far 
the  longest  time  and  still  to  continue  to-morrow,  to  mend  what  in  the 
course  of  our  fixing  we  had  broken. 

Rockwell's  in  bed,  asleep,  dreaming  of  the  little,  wild  night- 
ingale that  sang  of  freedom  to  that  poor,  unhappy  Chinese  Em- 
peror ;  while  far  from  here  in  streets  and  towns  the  tin  nightingale 
of  law-made  liberty  charms  the  world.  And  it's  now  my  read- 
ing time,  my  time  for  bread  and  jam  and  a  soft-cushioned 
back. 

The  days  run  by,  true  winter  days,  snow,  cold,  and  wind, — what 
wind !  It  is  terrifying  when  from  our  mountain  tops  those  fierce  blasts 
sweep  upon  us  roaring  as  they  come ;  flying  twigs  and  ice  beat  on  the 
roof,  the  boards  creak  and  groan  under  the  wind's  weight,  the  lamp 
flutters,  moss  is  driven  in  and  falls  upon  my  work-table,  the  canvas 
over  our  bed  flaps, — and  then  in  a  moment  the  wind  is  gone  and  the 

80 


DAY'S  END 


WINTER 

world  is  still  again  save  for  the  distant  wash  of  the  waves  and  the  far 
off  forest  roar. 

Olson  is  full  of  treats.  His  latest  was  in  pleasant  violation  of  the 
law.  From  a  bottle  of  pale  liquid  half  filled  with  raisins  he  poured 
me  a  drink,  mixing  it  with  an  equal  amount  of  ginger  ale  and  a  dash 
of  sugar.    It  tasted  pretty  good,  quite  thrilling  in  fact. 

"  What  is  it?  "  I  asked. 

"  Pure  alcohol,  "  he  said,  smacking  his  lips. 

Olson  then  launched  forth  on  confidential  advice,  "  from  one 
trapper  to  another,  "  on  how  to  trap  men, — in  my  case  rich  patrons. 
He  has  my  need  of  them  quite  upon  his  mind. 

Olson's  eggs,  by  the  way,  taste  good  enough.  (They  gave  him 
in  Seward  twenty-four  dozen  bad  eggs  to  bring  out  for  the  foxes.) 
We  have  eaten  a  dozen.  To-day  I  cracked  seventeen  to  find  six  for 
dinner.  Onion  omelette  is  the  fashion  to  cook  them  in.  Rockwell 
pronounces  them  delicious  and — well — so  do  I. 

Hard,  hard  at  work,  little  play,  not  too  much  sleep.  The  wind 
blows  ceaselessly.  Rockwell  is  forever  good, — industrious,  kind,  and 
happy.  He  reads  now  quite  freely  from  any  book.  Drawing  has  be- 
come a  natural  and  regular  occupation  for  him,  almost  a  recreation — for 
he  can  draw  in  both  a  serious  and  a  humorous  vein.  At  this  moment 
he's  waiting  in  bed  for  some  music  and  another  Andersen  fairy  tale. 

Another  day  has  gone  and  a  new  morning  is  hours  on  its  way. 
Out  in  the  moonlit  night  strained,  tired  eyes  open  wide  and  are  made 
clear  again,  cramped  knees  must  dance  in  the  crisp  air,  the  curved 
spine  bends  backward  as  the  upstretched  arms  describe  that  superb 
embracing  gesture  of  the  good-night  yawn.  November  the  thirteenth ! 
how  time  sweeps  by.  And  I  look  over  the  black  water  that  we  soon 
must  cross  again  to  Seward.  The  wind  bursts  around  the  cabin 
corner.    I  shiver  and — go  to  bed. 

83 


CHAPTER  V 


WAITING 


Thursday,  November  fourteenth. 

©E'RE  ready  to  go  to  Seward  the  moment  the  weather 
moderates — which  may  be  not  for  two  weeks  or 
two  months.    I've  packed  blankets  and  several 
days'  food  in  a  great  knapsack  so  that  if  we're  driven 
to  land  somewhere  we'll  not  perish  of  hunger.    And 
this  trip  while  it  may  be  carried  out  speedily  may  on  the  other  hand 
strand  us  days  without  number  in  Seward  and  cost  three  or  four 
times  that  many  dollars. 

The  wind  is  still  in  the  North,  the  days  are  wonderfully  beautiful, 
and  the  nights  no  less.  This  very  night  Rockwell  and  I  skated  for  the 
third  time,  Ah,  but  it  was  glorious  on  the  lake,  the  moon  high  above 
us  in  a  cloudless  sky,  the  snow  and  ice  on  the  mountain  sides  glisten- 
ing and  the  spruces  black.  We  skated  together  hand  in  hand  like 
sweethearts ;  going  far  to  one  end  of  the  lake  in  the  teeth  of  the  wind 
and  returning  before  it  like  full-rigged  ships.  And  Rockwell  whose 
second  skate  to-day  this  was  improves  every  minute. 

84 


WAITING 

I've  cut  Rockwell's  hair,  four  months'  growth.  He  has  had  the 
appearance  of  a  boy  of  the  Middle  Ages  with  his  hair  cut  to  a  line 
above  his  eyes.  Now  he's  truly  a  handsome  fellow — and  such  a  man 
under  the  hardships  of  this  cold  place  and  rough  life  that  I'm  very 
proud  of  him. 

Saturday,  November  sixteenth. 

Still  it  blows,  yesterday  and  to-day,  cold,  clear,  and  blue, — and 
the  moon  these  nights  stands  straight  above  us  and  stays  till 
dawn,  setting  far  in  the  north.  It  is  really  cold.  Olson  is  quite 
miserable  and  wonders  how  we  can  keep  at  our  wood  cutting  and 
skating.  But  I  think  I  shall  never  live  in  such  cold  again  as  in 
that  first  winter  on  Monhegan  in  my  unfinished  house  when  on 
cold  days  the  water  pails  four  feet  from  the  stove  froze  over  be- 
tween the  times  I  used  them,  and  my  beans  at  soak  froze  one 
night  on  the  lighted  stove.  We  love  this  weather  here.  While 
the  cabin  is  drafty  I  pile  on  fuel  remorselessly,  and  that's  a  real 
delight  after  having  all  my  life  had  truly  to  count  the  pieces  of 
coal  and  wood.  The  ice  on  the  pond  is  six  inches  thick,  part  of  it 
clear  black  that  one  can  see  the  bottom  through.  This  morning 
Rockwell  changed  to  heavy  underwear.  He  complains  always  of 
the  heat,  day  and  night. 

The  days  go  on  about  as  usual  varied  only  by  an  occasional 
weekly  or  monthly  chore  and  success  or  failure  in  my  painting. 
This  morning  with  Olson's  help  I  brought  my  boat  up  onto  the  land 
above  the  beach.  The  boat  is  an  extremely  heavily  built  eighteen- 
foot  dory  with  a  heavy  keel ;  and  yet  the  wind  carried  it  four  feet 
last  night  and,  if  it  had  not  been  secured,  might  have  blown  it 
down  into  the  water  where  the  waves  would  soon  have  wrecked 
it.  This  night  I  shall  not  read  in  bed ;  it's  quite  too  far  away  from 
the  stove. 

85 


WILDERNESS 

Sunday,  November  seventeenth. 

We  jumped  from  bed  in  a  hurry  this  morning  believing  that  the 
apparent  stillness  boded  a  calm  day  and  a  fit  one  for  the  Seward  trip. 
But  the  sea  beyond  our  cove  was  running  swiftly  and  within  two 
hours  there  was  a  gale  of  wind  and  some  snow.  Cold  it  was  and 
dark.  We'd  hardly  put  the  lamp  out  after  breakfast,  before  we 
lighted  it  again  for  late  dinner.  Still  in  that  short  daylight  I  painted 
and  Rockwell  skated  and  painted,  and  we  both  cut  a  lot  of  wood. 
I've  spent  the  evening  writing,  trying  an  article  for  "The  Modern 
School."  We  turned  my  boat  over  and  secured  it  to  the  ground 
with  ropes  just  in  time  to  escape  the  fall  of  snow  to-night  that 
lies  deep  on  the  ground.  The  moon  is  up  and  through  the  clouds  there 
comes  a  general  illumination  like  daylight. 

Monday,  November  eighteenth. 

To-day  a  storm  from  the  southeast.  It  blows  like  fury.  Break- 
fast by  lamplight,  work  until  dark,  then  dinner — in  the  neighborhood 
of  three  o'clock  or  maybe  four — more  work,  and  a  nap,  for  I  felt  ex- 
hausted. Rockwell  goes  to  bed  and  is  read  to,  I  work  a  while  longer, 
then  a  light  supper  for  which  Rockwell  gets  up  again,  then — the 
dishes  washed  and  R.  again  in  bed — a  call  on  Olson  for  three  quarters 
of  an  hour,  leaving  there  at  ten,  to  work  again  till  some  wild  hour. 
What  a  strangely  arranged  day!  I'm  determined  to  have  a  clock. 
But  now  it  will  be  seen  that  no  more  time  must  be  spent  this  night 
upon  this  diary.    Amen. 

Tuesday,  November  nineteenth. 

A  dreary,  dreary,  a  weary  day.  But  I've  worked  or  somehow  been 
ceaselessly  busy  and  now  I'm  about  ready  for  my  nightcap  of  reading 
and  bed.  Four  canvases  stretched  and  primed  stand  to  my  credit 
and  that  alone  is  one  day's  work  in  effort  and  conquered  repugnance. 

86 


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A        6£Afl 
ROCKWELL'S    DREAM 


WAITING 

What  a  tedious  work.  My  Christmas  letters  are  written,  nearly  all 
of  them.  And  as  Christmas  draws  near  it  seems  more  and  more 
impossible  without  home  and  the  children.  It  will  be  a  huge  make- 
believe  for  one  of  our  family  here ! 

There's  a  big  storm  at  sea  from  the  look  of  the  water  and  the  sound 
of  the  wind.  And  the  rain  falls  drearily  and  on  the  roof  it  rattles. 
From  the  tall  trees  the  great  drops  fall  like  stones;  theybeatto  pieces, 
little  by  little,  the  paper  roof,  and  now  when  the  rain  is  hardest  we 
hear  the  drip,  drip  of  the  water  on  the  floor.  But  we  are  comfortable — 
so  what  of  it  all. 

I  read  "Big  Claus  and  Little  Claus  "  to  Rockwell  to-night.  That's 
a  great  story  and  we  roared  over  it.  Rockwell  doesn't  like  the  stories 
about  kings  and  queens,  he  says,  "  They're  always  marrying  and  that 
kind  of  stuff."  Just  the  same  Rockwell  himself  has  his  life  and 
marriage  pretty  closely  planned, — the  journey  from  the  East  alone, 
the  wife  to  be  found  at  Seattle  to  save  her  carfare — and  yet  not  put 
off  as  far  as  Alaska,  for  there  they  don't  look  nice  enough, — and  then 
life  in  Alaska  to  the  end  of  his  days.  And  I'm  to  be  along  if  I'm  not 
dead, — as  I  probably  shall  be,  he  says. 

I  have  just  finished  the  life  of  Blake  and  am  now  reading  Blake's 
prose  catalogue,  etc.,  and  a  book  of  Indian  essays  of  Coomeraswamy. 
The  intense  and  illuminating  fervor  of  Blake !  I  have  just  read  this : 
"  The  human  mind  cannot  go  beyond  the  gift  of  God,  the  Holy  Ghost. 
To  suppose  that  Art  can  go  beyond  the  finest  specimens  of  Art  that 
are  now  in  the  world  is  not  knowing  what  Art  is ;  it  is  being  blind  to 
the  gifts  of  the  Spirit."  Here  in  the  supreme  simplicity  of  life  amid 
these  mountains  the  spirit  laughs  at  man's  concern  with  the  form  of 
Art,  with  new  expression  because  the  old  is  outworn!  It  is  man's 
own  poverty  of  vision  yielding  him  nothing,  so  that  to  save  himself 
he  must  trick  out  in  new  garb  the  old,  old  commonplaces,  or  exalt  to 
be  material  for  art  the  hitherto  discarded  trivialities  of  the  mind. 

89 


WILDERNESS 

Wednesday,  November  twentieth. 

To-morrow  we  hope  to  get  off — although  it  still  storms.  There's  a 
terrific  sea  running  but  even  such  a  sea  would  trouble  us  less  than  the 
chop  of  the  north  wind.    The  wind  above  all  else  is  to  be  feared  here. 

I  painted  little — it  was  so  dark.  Somehow  on  these  short  days  it 
is  difficult  to  accomplish  much.  Certain  things  have  to  be  done  by 
daylight:  the  chopping  of  wood,  carrying  of  water  from  a  hundred 
yards  away,  lamp  filling,  and  some  cooking.  I  made  myself  a  lot  of 
envelopes  to-day  and  second-coated  the  canvases  of  yesterday's 
stretching.  And  now  it  is  bedtime  for  to-morrow  we  rise  early. 
Oh!  the  porcupine  returned  to-day  and  was  discovered  feeding 
calmly  near  the  cabin.  He  showed  no  alarm  at  Rockwell's  approach, 
and,  when  finally  after  some  hours  of  undisturbed  nibbling  and 
napping  Rockwell  carried  him  home  by  his  tail  and  set  him  down  a 
little  distance  from  his  old  cage,  he  ran  straight  there  and  interned 
himself. 

Friday,  November  twenty-second. 

Both  yesterday  and  to-day  are  to  be  recorded.  The  porcupine 
is  dead!  And  yesterday  he  endeared  himself  so  to  us,  playing  about 
in  the  house  with  the  utmost  content.  The  cause  of  his  death  we 
cannot  know — unless  it  was  our  kindness.  Rockwell  with  Olson's 
leather  mittens  on  did  carry  him  about  a  good  deal.  Of  course  they 
are  creatures  nocturnal  and  we  had  planned  to  let  him  have  his  regu- 
lar hours  for  exercise  and  feeding,  Rockwell  delighting  in  the  plan 
that  he  should  stay  with  him  in  the  woods  at  night,  which  I  was  cer- 
tainly going  to  let  him  try.  But  it's  over, — and  Pet  No.  2  has  gone  to 
his  happy  hunting  grounds. 

It  storms,  yesterday  violently  with  such  wind  and  rain  as  seemed 
incredible.  The  thin  paper  roof  made  the  noise  deafening  so  that  I 
could  not  sleep ;  and  the  surf  beat  and  the  forest  roared ;  it  was  a  wild 

90 


HE   CABIN   WINDOW 


WAITING 

night.  To-day  is  better  though  it  pours  every  half  hour.  When, 
when  shall  we  get  to  Seward !  And  here  before  me  are  displayed  all 
the  pretty  Christmas  presents  I  have  made  and  that  Rockwell  has 
made.  Here  we  sit,  these  dark  short  days,  working  together  at  the 
same  table  just  like  two  professional  craftsmen.  On  these  days  I 
cannot  paint, — and  Olson  calls  upon  us  more  than  he  should.  Still, 
we  let  him  sit  here  in  silence  and  he  is  wise  enough  to  be  quite  con- 
tent. Now  it  is  late.  The  stove  is  out  and  I  must  go  to  bed.  Two 
meals  only  to-day, — another  is  due  me.  Oh !  I  made  myself  a  beauti- 
ful die  for  note  paper  yesterday  and  printed  it  on  my  envelopes 
to-day. 

Saturday,  November  twenty-third. 

It  dawned  calm  with  rain  hanging  in  the  air.  We  hurried  with  our 
breakfast  in  the  hope  that  we  should  get  off;  but  within  an  hour 
at  the  turn  of  the  tide  the  northwest  wind  whipped  down  from  the 
mountains  and  the  rain  fell  in  torrents.  And  now  at  a  late  hour  of  the 
night  it  still  rains  although  the  wind  has  fallen.  We  felled  a  tree  to- 
day and  partly  cut  it  up.  Although  it  was  dismally  dark  all  the  time 
I  managed  to  paint  a  little.  And  I  wrote  much  and  drew  in  black  and 
white.  Rockwell  has  been  industrious  as  usual,  drawing  at  my  side. 
He  told  me  an  amusing  anecdote  of  little  Kathleen  that  is  worthy  to 
go  down  here.  When  in  play  she  wants  to  change  her  doll's  name 
she  sends  for  the  pretend  doctor,  again  herself,  and  he  operates  on 
the  doll.  Cutting  a  hole  in  her  stomach  he  stuffs  into  it  a  little  piece 
of  paper  on  which  he  has  written  the  new  name.  And  so  the  name  is 
changed. 

Tried  some  cottonseed  oil  of  Olson's  to-day  that  was  too  bad. 
A  year  or  two  ago  he  was  given  a  case  of  spoiled  mayonnaise  dressing 
for  fox  food.  Olson  saved  the  oil  which  had  separated  from  the  rest 
of  it.    I  made  dough  for  doughnuts  while  I  heated  the  oil  to  fry  our- 

93 


WILDERNESS 

selves  that  great  treat.  Then  arose  a  pinching,  rancid  odor  that 
almost  made  me  ill  but  which  Rockwell  called  delicious.  However  I 
baked  the  doughnuts.    Still,  the  oil  unheated  seemed  not  bad. 

Sunday,  November  twenty-fourth. 

Olson  declares  this  day  to  be  Sunday  and  in  honor  of  the  day  he 
gave  me  a  cup  of  milk  for  junket.  And  in  honor  of  the  day,  whatever 
it  is,  I  worked  so  hard  that  now  I'm  tired  out.  The  day  began  with 
snow  and  continued  with  it.  It  blustered  and  blew  much  as  a  day  in 
March  and  the  bay  looked  wild.  And  now  to-night  it  is  clear  and 
starlight.  Will  the  north  wind  begin  to  blow  again  to-morrow?  The 
chances  are  that  it  will  and  Seward  and  the  sending  of  my  mail  will 
be  as  far  away  as  ever.  I  painted  with  some  success  for  the  snow 
makes  the  cabin  lighter.  Really  my  picture  looks  well.  Eight 
canvases  are  far  along  so  that  I'm  proud  of  them.  We  cut  wood  to- 
day of  course;  it  would  be  great  fun  if  only  we'd  more  minutes  of 
daylight  to  spare.  Steamer  must  be  due  in  Seward  now.  We've  seen 
none  for  two  weeks  or  longer. 

Monday,  November  twenty-fifth. 

It  rages  from  the  northeast !  The  bay  is  a  wild  expanse  of  breakers. 
They  bear  into  our  cove  and  thunder  on  the  beach.  A  mad  day  and  a 
wild  night.  And  Seward  is  as  far  off  as  ever !  It  is  now  my  hope  that 
a  steamer  will  go  to  Seward  before  me.  Olson  finds  by  his  diary  that 
none  has  been  seen  to  go  there  for  two  weeks.  I  began  two  new 
pictures  to-day  trying  for  the  first  time  to  paint  after  dark.  My  lamp 
is  so  inadequate  in  this  dark  interior — it  burns  only  a  three-quarter 
inch  wick — that  I  can  work  only  in  black  and  white.  But  I've 
laid  in  the  whole  picture  in  that  way.  Rockwell  spends  several  hours 
a  day  out-of-doors  exploring  the  woods,  searching  out  porcupine  trails 
and  caves.   It  is  weeks  since  I  have  stopped  my  work  even  for  a  walk. 

94 


GO   TO    BED 


WAITING 

In  this  "  out-of-doors  life  "  I  see  little  of  out-of-doors.    It's  a  blessing 
to  me  to  have  to  saw  wood  every  day. 

I  finished  Coomeraswamy's  "Indian  Essays"  to-day,  an  illuminat- 
ing and  inspiring  book.  Coomeraswamy  defines  mysticism  as  a  belief 
in  the  unity  of  life.  The  creed  of  an  artist  concerns  us  only  when  we 
mean  by  it  the  tendency  of  his  spirit.  (How  hard  it  is  to  speak  of  these 
intangible  things  and  not  use  words  loosely  and  without  exact  mean- 
ing.) I  think  that  whatever  of  the  mystic  is  in  a  man  is  essentially 
inseparable  from  him ;  it  is  his  by  the  grace  of  God.  After  all,  the  quali- 
ties by  which  all  of  us  become  known  are  those  of  which  we  are  our- 
selves least  conscious.  The  best  of  me  is  what  is  quite  impulsive ;  and, 
looking  at  myself  for  a  moment  with  a  critic's  eye,  the  forms  that  occur 
in  my  art,  the  gestures,  the  spirit  of  the  whole  of  it  is  in  fact  nothing 
but  an  exact  pictorial  record  of  my  unconscious  living  idealism. 

Tuesday,  November  twenty-sixth. 

After  a  terribly  stormy  and  cold  night  the  day  was  fair  with  the  wind 
comfortably  settled  in  the  north  as  if  he  meant  to  stay  there.  Only 
at  night  has  it  been  calm.  To-night  again  is  so  and  if  I  had  not  Rock- 
well on  my  hands  to  make  me  timid  I'd  go  at  night  to  Seward.  Olson 
was  a  real  Santa  Claus  to-day.  First  he  gave  us  Schmier  Kase,  then  a 
good  salt  salmon — two  years  old  which  he  said  we'd  "  better  try  " — 
and  to-night  a  lot  of  butter  churned  by  him  from  goat's  milk.  It  looks 
like  good  butter  and,  with  the  added  coloring  matter,  more  palatable 
than  the  natural  white  butter  of  the  goat.  We  felled  two  trees  to-day 
— fairly  small  ones.  We  consume  a  vast  amount  of  wood  with  our  all- 
night  fire.    Well — to-morrow,  let  us  say  again,  we'll  be  off  to  Seward. 

Wednesday,  November  twenty-seventh. 

To-day,  if  we  had  known  how  the  weather  would  turn,  we  should 
have  started.    It  was  lovely,  cold  but  fair  with  the  wind  in  the  south- 

97 


WILDERNESS 

west.  It  had  in  the  morning  all  appearances  of  a  heavy  blow  and  we 
failed  to  get  in  shape  to  take  advantage  of  its  calming  as  the  afternoon 
advanced.  At  any  rate  I  have  a  little  picture  of  it  with  the  soft  haze  of 
the  day  and  the  loose  clouds.  I  painted  besides  on  the  large  canvas  of 
Superman  begun  a  few  days  ago.  Olson  lent  me  his  "  grub-box  "  to 
use,  a  wooden  box  of  small  grocery  size  with  a  cover  fastened  with  a 
strap  and  buckle.  Such  a  box  is  part  of  the  outfit  of  every  man  on  the 
Yukon.  My  emergency  grub  is  now  in  it,  my  letters,  Christmas 
presents,  and  all  that's  bound  for  Seward.  Rockwell  took  Squirlie  out 
for  an  airing  to-day,  wrapping  him  with  tender  care  in  a  sweater. 
They  went  for  a  long  way  into  the  woods  like  good  companions.  Then 
Rockwell  drew  a  portrait  of  his  muffled  pet  which  is  destined  for 
Clara's  Christmas. 

Thursday,  November  twenty-eighth. 

This  continual  waiting  is  getting  upon  my  nerves.  Most  of  to-day 
I  spent  tinkering  with  the  engine.  It  goes  now — in  a  water  barrel. 
The  trouble  with  the  best  of  these  little  motors  is  that  the  moment 
they  get  wet  they  stop,  and  they  are  attached  at  such  an  exposed  place, 
on  the  stern,  that  they  will  get  wet  if  there's  much  of  a  sea.  Then 
you're  in  a  bad  fix  for  it's  impossible  to  make  any  headway  rowing 
with  the  engine — or  rather  the  propeller — dragging.  Most  of  the 
engines  are  hung  right  on  the  stern  and  can  be  readily  detached  and 
drawn  into  the  boat.  But  mine  fits  into  a  sort  of  pocket  built  in  the 
stern  and  is  difficult  even  on  land  to  lift  out.  It  weighs  decidedly  over 
a  hundred  pounds.  So  I  don't  relish  getting  caught  with  such  an 
equipment.  I  must  have  mentioned,  by  the  way,  that  the  engine  was 
"  thrown  in  "  with  the  boat  as  of  no  value. 

So  there's  the  day  gone.  To-night  we  go  to  bed  early  and 
if  it  is  calm  just  before  daylight  in  the  morning  we  shall  start 
at  once. 

98 


RIFTWOOD 


WAITING 

Friday,  November  twenty-ninth. 

Last  night  a  terrific  storm  from  the  east.  A  few  blasts  struck  the 
house  with  such  force  that  it  seemed  our  thin  roof  could  not  stand  it. 
Of  course  it  is  really  quite  strong  enough  but  the  noise  of  those  sudder. 
squalls  bearing  along  snow  and  ice  from  the  tree  tops  is  simply  ap- 
palling. In  the  morning  it  became  milder  but  continued  to  rain  and 
snow  and  for  most  of  the  day  to  blow  heavily  from  the  eastward.  In 
the  afternoon  to  my  despair  a  steamer  entered  for  Seward;  she'll 
doubtless  leave  at  daylight.  There  goes  one  of  my  chances  to  get  my 
Christmas  mail  off. 

I  painted  splendidly  to-day  and  am  in  the  seventh  heaven  over  it, 
— which  takes  away  some  of  my  gloom  at  never  reaching  Seward. 
A  long  call  from  Olson  to-night.  He  sits  here  patiently  and  silently 
while  I  draw.    It  snows  steadily.    What  will  to-morrow  bring? 

Francis  Galton,  the  inquirer  into  human  faculty,  would  have  been 
charmed  at  Rockwell's  casual  mention  of  the  colors  of  proper  names. 
They  do  apparently  assume  definite  colors  that  seem  to  him  appro- 
priate and  characteristic  beyond  question.  Clara,  too,  sees  names  as 
colors.  Father  is  blue,  Mother  is  a  darker  blue.  The  breadth  of 
vowel  sound  apparently,  judging  from  this  and  other  examples  he 
gave  me,  lowers  the  tone  of  color.  Kathleen  is  a  light  yellow,  very 
light.  Now  for  a  bite  to  eat,  for  I've  had  but  two  meals — and  then  to 
bed. 


IOI 


\< 


CHAPTER  VI 
EXCURSION 

Thursday,  December  fifth. 

y^kj^   OVEMBER  thirtieth  we  arose  before  daylight.    It  was 

yla    ||       a  mild,  still  morning  and  the  melting  snow  dripped 

m    ■    W      from  the  trees.     Without  breakfast  we  set  about  at 

^^f  mf      once  to  carry  our  things  over  to  the  boat.    Olson  was 

aroused  and  turned  out  to  help.    There's  always  much 

to  be  carried  on  a  trip  to  Seward ;  gasoline,  oil,  tools,  my  pack  bag — 

containing  clothes,  heavy  blankets,  and  spare  boots, — and  the  grub 

box  Olson  had  given  me  packed  with  mail,  books,  grub,  and  the  flute. 

The  engine  was  in  good  order  and  started  promptly.    So  away  we 

went  out  over  the  bay  just  as  the  day  brightened. 

It  was  calm  and  beautiful.  The  sun  from  below  the  horizon  shot 
shafts  of  light  up  into  the  clouds,  gray  became  pink,  and  pink  grew 
into  gold  until  at  last  after  an  hour  or  more  the  sun's  rays  lighted  up 
the  mountain  peaks,  and  we  knew  that  he  had  risen.  It  continued 
calm  and  mild  all  the  way,  but  nevertheless  I  caught  myself  singing 

102 


h 


EXCURSION 

"Erlkdnig,"  such  is  my  anxiety  at  carrying  Rockwell  with  me. 
Rockwell  enjoyed  the  trip  wrapped  up  in  a  sheepskin  coat  of  Olson's. 
We  stopped  at  a  fishing  camp  for  a  moment's  chat  from  the  water.  The 
man  living  there  had  just  caught  a  good  sized-wolverine.  We  declined 
breakfast  and  hurried  on. 

In  Seward  we  stored  our  things  in  Olson's  cabin,  a  little  place 
about  eight  feet  square,  and  started  for  the  hotel.  One  of  our  friends 
met  us  with  a  shout,  "  Well,  you've  had  good  sense  to  stay  away  so 
long.  " 

Influenza,  I  then  learned,  had  raged  in  Seward,  there  having  been 
over  350  cases ;  and  smallpox  had  made  a  start.  But  the  deaths  had 
been  few  and  it  was  now  well  in  hand.  However,  I  shunned  the  hotel. 
A  little  cottage  was  generously  put  at  our  disposal  and  we  were  soon 
comfortably  settled  there  with  our  mail  from  home  spread  before  us. 
I  left  everything  of  mine  at  the  hotel  untouched  and  we  continued  to 
wear  our  old  clothes  throughout  the  stay.  At  midnight  I  went  with 
Otto  Boehm  to  pull  the  dory  up  above  the  tide  and  overturn  her,  and 
then  continued  letter  writing  until  three-thirty  A.M. 

December  first  and  every  day  of  our  stay  at  Seward  was  calm  and 
fair.  We  kept  house  in  our  cottage,  I  continually  busy  writing  and 
doing  up  Christmas  presents,  for  a  steamer  had  entered  on  the  thir- 
tieth and  was  due  to  leave  Sunday  night,  the  first.  The  people  of 
Seward  are  friendly  without  being  the  slightest  bit  inquisitive, 
and  they  are  extremely  broad-minded  for  all  that  their  country 
is  remote  from  the  greater  world.  I  don't  believe  that  provincial- 
ism is  an  inevitable  evil  of  far-off  communities.  The  Alaskan 
is  alert,  enterprising,  adventurous.  Men  stand  on  their  own  feet 
— and  why  not?  The  confusing  intricacy  of  modern  society  is 
here  lacking.  The  men's  own  hands  take  the  pure  gold  from  the 
rocks;  no  one  is  another's  master.  It's  a  great  land — the  best 
by  far  I  have  ever  known. 

103 


WILDERNESS 

What  a  telltale  of  reaction  from  our  lonely  island  life  is  this 
roseate  vision  of  the  little  city  of  the  far  northwest!  We  came  in 
time  to  see  Seward  quite  differently  and,  with  confidence  in  Alaska, 
to  believe  it  to  be  in  no  way  a  typical  and  true  Alaskan  town.  The 
"  New  York  of  the  Pacific,"  as  it  is  gloriously  acclaimed  in  the  litera- 
ture of  its  Chamber  of  Commerce,  numbers  its  citizens  perhaps  at 
half  a  thousand — the  tenacious  remnant  of  the  many  more  who 
years  ago  trusted  our  government  to  fulfill  its  promises  to  really  build 
and  operate  a  railroad  into  the  interior.  One's  indignation  fires  at 
the  recital  of  the  men  of  Seward's  wrongs, — until  you  recollect  that 
Seward  was  built  for  speculation,  not  for  industry,  and  that  by  the 
chance  turn  of  the  wheel  many  have  merely  reaped  loss  instead  of 
profit.  There  are  no  resources  at  that  spot  to  be  developed  and  there 
is  consequently  no  industry. 

Seward  is  planned  for  growth  and  equipped  for  commerce.  Wide 
avenues  and  numbered  blocks  adorn  the  town-site  maps  where  to  the 
naked  eye  the  land's  a  wilderness  of  stumps  and  briars.  The  center 
of  the  built-up  portion  of  the  town,  one  street  of  two  blocks'  length,  is 
modern  with  electric  lights  and  concrete  pavements.  The  stores  are 
wonderfully  good;  there  are  two  banks  and  several  small  hotels,  a 
baker  from  Ward's  bakery  in  New  York  and  a  French  barber  from 
the  Hotel  Buckingham.  There's  a  good  grammar  school,  a  hospital, 
and  churches  of  all  sorts.  There  is  no  public  library;  apparently  one 
isn't  badly  missed.  Seward's  a  tradesmen's  town  and  tradesmen's 
views  prevail, — narrow  reactionary  thought  on  modern  issues  and  a 
trembling  concern  at  the  menace  of  organized  labor.  A  strike  of  the 
three  newsboys  of  the  Seward  paper  plunged  the  poor  fool  its  printer 
into  frantic  fear  of  an  I.  W.  W.  plot.  But  even  Seward  smiled  at  the 
little  man's  terror.  The  worst  of  Seward  is  itself;  the  best  is  the 
strong  men  that  by  chance  are  there  or  that  pass  through  from 
the  great  Alaska. 

104 


HE   WHITTLER 


V 


EXCURSION 

December  second  was  a  day  for  shopping.  I  bought  all  mariner  of 
Christmas  things,  things  for  the  tree,  things  to  eat,  little  presents  for 
Olson — but  nothing  for  Rockwell.  He  and  I  must  do  without  presents 
this  Christmas.  Then  more  letters  were  written.  A  wood  block  that 
I  had  cut  proved,  on  my  seeing  a  proof  of  it,  to  be  absolutely  worthless. 

December  third  I  had  still  so  much  mail  and  business  to  attend  to 
that  I  stayed  over  another  day.  Set  a  door  frame  for  Brownell  and 
spent  that  evening  at  his  house.  The  postmaster  came  too,  fine 
fellow,  and  we'd  a  great  evening  taking  turns  singing  songs — and  the 
P.  M.  did  mighty  well  with  "  School-master  Mishter  O'Toole.  "  The 
day  I'd  spent  writing  and  gossiping  about  town. 

I  heard  then  a  story  about  Olson  that's  worth  while.  He  was  once 
telling  a  crowd  of  men  about  the  reindeer  to  the  northward.  Among 
his  listeners  was  a  Jew  who  was  annoyed  with  his  "  hectoring.  " 
At  last  this  joker  asked:  "  Olson,  if  you  bred  a  reindeer  to  a  Swede 
what  would  you  get?  "  "  You'd  get  a  Jew,  "  replied  Olson.  The  Jew, 
who  still  lives  in  Seward,  has  not  bothered  Olson  since.  The  old  man 
has  a  rare  reputation  for  his  honesty  and  truth  and  all  round  sterling 
qualities. 

It's  truly  a  satisfaction  to  be  in  a  country  where  men  are  alert 
enough  to  take  no  offense  at  alertness,  where  enterprise  is  so  common 
a  virtue  that  it  arouses  no  suspicion,  and  where  it  is  the  rule  to  mind 
your  own  business. 

December  fourth  we  set  about  to  leave  for  Fox  Island.  It  took 
two  hours  to  wind  up  our  final  business  in  town  and  embark.  Brown- 
ell helped  with  the  boat.  Of  course  the  engine  balked  for  fifteen 
minutes  and  then  (not  "  of  course  ")  went  beautifully.  After  travel- 
ing a  quarter  of  a  mile  I  learned  that  Rockwell  had  left  our  clock 
standing  in  the  snow  by  Olson's  cabin.  So  for  that  we  went  back. 
Brownell  saw  us  and  brought  it. 

The  trip  was  swift  and  smooth.   At  Caine's  Head  it  began  to  snow, 

107 


WILDERNESS 

obscuring  Fox  Island,  but  I  knew  the  course.  In  mid-channel  the 
engine  stopped.  After  ten  minutes'  tinkering  it  resumed  going  and 
went  beautifully  till  we  rounded  the  head  of  our  cove.  Then  it  sput- 
tered and  I  had  continually  to  crank  it.  However,  it  carried  us  to 
thirty  or  forty  feet  of  the  shore  when  it  breathed  its  last,  thanks  to 
the  snow  that  had  by  now  thoroughly  wet  the  engine  and  ourselves. 
We  unloaded  and  with  great  labor  hauled  up  the  dory  and  turned  her 
over.  That  night  I  was  exhausted  and  went  straight  to  bed,  leaving 
Rockwell  at  his  drawing.    So  now  we're  on  Fox  Island  again. 


108 


CHAPTER  VII 
HOME 

Thursday,  December  fifth  (Continued). 

^4^^  ILD,  rainy,  snowy,  sleepy — this  first  day  back  at  home. 

jfi  ■  'M  I've  done  little  work  and  dared  look  at  but  one 

£  ■  ■  I*!  picture — that  of  Superman — and  it  appears  truly  mag- 
yL¥  m  m  nificent.  The  sky  of  it  is  luminous  as  with  north- 
ern lights,  and  the  figure  lives.  After  all  it  is  Life 
which  man  sees  and  which  he  tries  to  hold  and  in  his  Art  to  recreate. 
To  that  end  he  bends  every  resource  straining  at  what  limits  him. 
If  he  could  only  be  free,  free  to  rise  beyond  the  limits  of  expression 
into  being  I  at  his  prophetic  vision  of  man's  destiny  assuming  himself 
the  lineaments  of  it,  in  stature  grown  gigantic,  rearing  upwards  be- 
yond the  narrow  clouds  of  earth  into  the  unmeasured  space  of  night, 
his  countenance  glowing,  his  arms  outstretched  in  an  embrace  of 
wider  worlds!  This  is  the  spirit  and  the  gesture  of  Superman. 
— So  I'm  not  unhappy.  Now  work  begins  again.  For  weeks  there'll 
be  no  mail  in  Seward  and  for  more  weeks  none  here. 

109 


V 


WILDERNESS 

Friday,  December  sixth. 

I'm  reading  a  little  book  on  Durer.  What  a  splendid  civilization 
that  was  in  the  Middle  Ages,  with  all  its  faults.  To  men  with  my 
interests  can  anything  be  more  conclusive  proof  of  the  superiority  of 
that  age  to  this  than  the  position  of  the  artist  and  the  scholar  in  the 
community?  Let  me  quote  from  Diirer's  diary.  (Antwerp,  a  banquet 
at  the  burgomaster's  hall.) 

"All  their  service  was  of  silver,  and  they  had  other  splendid  ornaments  and 
very  costly  meats.  All  their  wives  were  there  also.  And  as  I  was  being  led  to 
the  table  the  company  stood  on  both  sides  as  if  they  were  leading  some  great 
lord.  And  there  were  among  them  men  of  very  high  position,  who  all  treated 
me  with  respectful  bows,  and  promised  to  do  everything  in  their  power  agreea- 
ble to  me  that  they  knew  of.  And  as  I  was  sitting  there  in  such  grandeur, 
Adrian  Horebouts,  the  syndic  of  Antwerp,  came  with  two  servants  and  presented 
me  with  four  cans  of  wine  in  the  name  of  the  Town  Councillors  of  Antwerp,  and 
they  had  bid  him  say  that  they  wish  thereby  to  show  their  respect  for  me  and 
assure  me  of  their  good  will.  Wherefore  I  returned  my  humble  thanks — etc. 
After  that  came  Master  Peeter,  the  town  carpenter,  and  presented  me  with  two 
cans  of  wine,  with  the  offer  of  his  willing  services.  So  when  we  had  spent  a 
long  and  merry  time  together  till  late  at  night,  they  accompanied  us  home  with 
lanterns  in  great  honor." 

Oh  land  of  porcelain  bath-tubs!  A  man  has  only  to  leave  all 
that  by  which  we  to-day  estimate  culture  to  realize  that  all  of  his 
own  civilization  goes  with  him  right  to  the  back  woods,  and  lives 
there  with  him  refined  and  undiminished  by  the  hardships  there. 

Civilization  is  not  measured  by  the  poverty  or  the  wealth  of  the 
few  or  of  the  millions,  nor  by  monarchy,  republicanism,  or  even  Free- 
dom, nor  by  whether  we  work  with  hands  or  levers, — but  by  the  final 
fruit  of  all  of  these,  that  imperishable  record  of  the  human  spirit,  Art. 
The  obituary  of  to-day  in  America  has  surely  now  been  written  in  the 
poor  workshop  of  some  struggling,  unknown  man.  That  is  all  that 
the  future  will  know  of  us. 

All  records  for  winds  are  broken  by  what  rages  to-night.    From 

no 


GET   UP!" 


HOME 

the  northwest  it  piles  into  our  cove.  The  windows  are  coated  with 
salt,  and  tons  of  flying  water  sail  in  clouds  out  of  the  bay  hiding  the 
mountains  from  the  base  to  half  their  height.  Our  rafters  bend  be- 
neath the  blast;  ice — from  we  know  not  where — falls  upon  us  with  a 
thundering  noise.  The  canvases  suspended  aloft  sway  and  flap,  and 
from  end  to  end  of  the  cabin  the  breeze  roves  at  will.  It's  so  ridicu- 
lously bad  and  noisy  and  cold  that  Rockwell  and  I  just  laugh.  But 
the  wood  is  plentiful  for  we  cut  some  more  to-day. 

Last  night  at  bedtime  the  wind  had  risen.  At  some  midnight  hour 
the  stove  went  out  for  I  awoke  at  two  and  found  the  cold  all  about  us 
and  the  wind  hard  at  it.  So  with  a  generous  use  of  kerosene  the  fire 
was  made  to  burn  again  and  I  returned  to  a  good  night's  rest.  Some- 
how one  doesn't  mind  short  exposures  to  the  cold.  Many  a  day  I 
have  stood  naked  out  in  the  wind  and  then  become  at  once  glow- 
ing warm  again  in  the  hot  cabin.  Baked  bread  to-day  and  it  turned 
out  very  well.  Painted,  shivered,  wrote,  and  to-night  shall  try  to 
design  a  picture  of  the  "  Weird  of  the  Gods.  "  But  at  this  moment 
our  supper  is  ready  and  two  hungry,  cold  mortals  cannot  be  kept  from 
their  corn  mush. 

Saturday,  December  seventh. 

Late !  Now  that  we  have  a  clock — I  stole  one  in  Seward — we  live 
by  system,  our  hours  are  regular.  The  clock  I  set  by  the  tide,  marking 
the  rise  of  the  water  in  the  new-fallen  snow.  We  rise  at  7.30.  It  is 
then  not  yet  sunrise  but  fairly  light.  Breakfast  is  soon  cooked  and 
eaten.  To  start  the  blood  going  hard  for  a  good  day's  work  we  spring 
out-of-doors  and  chop  and  split  and  saw  in  the  glorious,  icy  north- 
wind.  Then  painting  begins.  I  have  scared  Olson  away — poor  soul — 
but  I  make  it  up  by  calling  on  him  just  at  dark  when  my  painting  hours 
are  over. 

Now  it's  eleven  at  night  and  I've  still  my  bit  to  read.    Whew,  but 

113 


WILDERNESS 

it's  cold  to-night  and  the  wind  is  rising  to  a  gale.  And  last  night! — 
what  a  bitter  one.  I  got  up  four  times  to  feed  the  ravenous  fire.  And 
even  so  the  water  pails  froze.  We  cannot  afford  to  let  it  freeze  much 
in  the  cabin  for  our  stores  are  all  exposed.  What  if  the  Christmas 
cider  should  freeze  and  burst!  I  painted  out  of  doors  to-day — in 
sneakers !  and  stood  it  just  about  as  long  as  one  would  imagine.  To 
love  the  cold  is  a  sign  of  youth — and  we  do  love  it,  the  Awakener. 

Sunday,  December  eighth. 

Log  cabins  stuffed  with  moss  should  be  wonderful  in  the  tropics. 
I'm  about  frozen.  On  this  work  table  I  must  weight  my  papers  down 
to  keep  them  from  flying  about  the  room.  And  the  wind  is  icy ;  it  is 
bitterly,  bitterly  cold.  Olson  says  we  need  expect  no  colder  weather 
than  this  all  winter.  Of  course  we  don't  really  mind  it.  The  stove  is 
red  hot  and  we  may  go  as  close  to  it  as  we  please,  and  the  bed  is  warm 
— except  towards  morning.  At  night  I  move  my  jugs  of  yeast  and 
cider  toward  the  stove,  fill  the  "  air-tight  "  to  the  top,  pile  blankets 
and  wrappers  upon  the  bed,  and  sleep  happily. 

The  gale  still  rages,  fortunately  not  with  its  utmost  fury.  This 
morning  Rockwell  and  I  hurried  through  our  chores  and  then  climbed 
to  the  low  ridge  of  the  island.  The  snow  in  the  woods  is  crusted  and 
bore  us  up  well  so  that  we  traveled  with  ease  and  soon  reached  the 
crest.  Ah,  there  it  was  glorious;  such  blue  and  gold  and  rose!  We 
looked  down  upon  the  spit  and  saw  the  sea  piling  upon  it ;  we  looked 
seaward  and  saw  the  snow  blown  from  the  land,  the  spray  and  the 
mist  rising  in  clouds  toward  the  sun, — and  the  sun,  the  beautiful  sun 
shone  on  us.  We  took  a  number  of  pictures  and  then  with  numbed 
fingers  and  toes  raced  down  the  slope  playing  man-pursued-by-a-bear. 
Rockwell  was  wonderful  to  look  at  with  his  cheeks  so  red  and  clear. 
He  loved  our  little  excursion. 

And  for  the  rest  of  the  day  we've  worked.    I  stretched  and  coated 

114 


HOME 

three  large  canvases,  hateful  job !  painted,  sawed  wood,  felled  a  tree — 
which  the  wind  carried  over  onto  another  so  that  there  it  hangs  neither 
up  nor  down, — and  that's  about  all.  It's  again  eleven  and  time  for 
bed.  The  night  is  beautiful  even  if  it  is  terrible;  and  the  young 
moon  is  near  setting. 

Monday,  December  ninth. 

It  blows  worse  than  ever,  and  it  is  colder.  All  day  the  blue  sky 
has  been  hidden  in  clouds  of  vapor  and  flying  spray.  The  bay  seethes 
and  smokes  and  huge  breakers  race  across  it.  It  is  truly  bitter  weather. 
Olson  to-night  ventured  the  prophecy  that  this  was  about  the  cul- 
mination of  winter — but  I  know  Olson  by  now.  I  cut  another  tree  this 
morning  to  release  the  one  of  yesterday  and  both  fell  with  a  magni- 
ficent crash.  Then  we  went  to  work  with  the  cross-cut  saw  and 
stocked  our  day's  wood. 

Olson  called  this  afternoon  and  related  his  recollection  of  the 
early  days  of  Nome. 

"  A  certain  man, "  he  began,  "  deserted  from  a  whaler  that 
stopped  for  water  on  the  north  coast  of  Alaska.  He'd  been  shang- 
haied in  San  Francisco  and  was  a  tailor  by  trade.  He  made  his  way 
down  the  coast  with  the  occasional  help  of  the  esquimaux.  At  last 
he  came  to  Nome.  The  men  were  gone  from  the  native  village  but 
a  woman  took  him  in.  She  was  named  English  Mary.  Now  she  had 
heard  of  the  gold  finds  on  the  Yukon  and  she  asked  the  man  if  he  was 
a  miner.  He  answered, '  Yes. '  '  You  come  with  me, '  she  said,  and 
led  him  to  a  certain  creek  and  showed  him  the  shining  nuggets  lying 
thick  upon  the  bottom.  But  the  tailor  really  knew  nothing  about 
gold  and  let  it  lie.  He  continued  down  the  coast  and  was  at  last 
carried  to  St.  Michael.  There  he  met  a  missionary  and  a  young 
fellow  who  had  come  to  Alaska  with  a  party  of  prospectors.  With 
those  two  he  returned  in  a  boat  to  Nome.  You'll  hear  different 
stories,  to  be  sure,  of  how  they  got  there  but  this  is  the  right  one,  for 

117 


WILDERNESS 

I've  seen  the  boat  they  came  in  lying  there  off  the  beach.  Well,  they 
came  and  saw  the  gold  but  none  of  them  could  say  for  certain  what  it 
was.  So  one  of  them  went  off  to  get  a  man  from  the  party  of  pros- 
pectors with  whom  the  young  fellow  had  come  to  Alaska.  At  last 
they  got  him  there  and  he  proved  that  it  was  sure  enough  gold. 
They  staked  their  claims  and  began  to  work  them.  But  word  of  gold 
travels  fast  and  already  others  began  to  come.  The  miner  of  that 
first  party  drew  up  mining  laws  for  the  country  and  these  were  en- 
forced. I  was  up  on  the  Yukon  when  I  heard  of  the  first  find  at  Nome. 
I  went  down  and  arrived  there  in  the  fall,  a  little  more  than  a  year 
after  the  strike.    By  that  time  there  was  quite  a  number  there. 

"  Some  man  had  drawn  up  a  plan  of  a  town  and  was  selling  lots. 
I  bought  one  on  the  northwest  corner  of  the  block.  It  was  on  the 
tundra.  (Tundra  is  vegetation  covered  ice,  soggy  to  a  foot's  depth.) 
There  was  a  tent  on  my  lot  and  some  wood,  so  I  bought  those  too. 
But  shortly  after  when  I  came  home  one  day  from  prospecting  I  found 
that  both  the  tent  and  the  wood  had  been  stolen.  I  bought  lumber 
for  the  frame  of  a  new  tent.  It  cost  me  thirty  dollars ;  that  is,  fifty 
cents  a  foot.  By  that  time  all  kinds  of  people  were  pouring  into  Nome. 
They  were  taking  out  gold  on  the  creek,  those  that  had  claims,  at  the 
rate  of  $5000  in  a  couple  of  hours.  It  was  so  heavy  in  the  sand  you 
couldn't  handle  a  pan-full. 

"  Someone  cut  into  my  tent  and  cleaned  me  out— but  I  had  nothing 
much  besides  a  jack-knife.  I  borrowed  ten  dollars  and  went  to 
work  at  a  dollar  an  hour.  A  couple  of  rascals  had  come  there,  a  judge 
and  a  lawyer ;  and  they  began  to  get  busy  swindling  everybody  out  of 
their  titles  to  claims.  It  was  said  openly  that  if  you  saw  anyone's 
claim  '  jump  it, '  and  the  lawyers  would  make  more  money  for  you 
than  you  could  get  out  in  gold.  There  was  no  use  in  a  man  without 
money  trying  to  hold  a  claim.  And  the  crowd  that  was  there !  Gam- 
blers, sharps,  actors, — men  and  women  of  every  kind — and  they  did 
act  so  foolish! — all  out  of  their  heads  over  the  gold.  The  brothels 
were  running  wide  open  and  robberies  occurred  in  the  town  by  day- 
light. Every  man  slept  with  his  gun  beside  him  and  if  he  shot  it  was 
to  kill.    The  robbers  chloroformed  men  as  they  slept  in  their  tents. 

118 


HOME 

There  were  thousands  of  people  then  and  you  could  look  out  on  the 
beach  and  see  them  swarming  like  flies.  Everything  was  overturned 
for  gold, — the  entire  beach  for  ten  miles  both  ways  from  Nome  was 
shoveled  off  into  the  sea.  They  dug  under  the  Indian  village  till  the 
houses  fell  in,  and  even  under  the  graveyard.  " 

And  so  Olson's  story  continues.  A  story  of  his  life  would  really  be 
— as  an  old  pioneer  in  Seward  told  me — a  history  of  Alaska.  Because 
Olson  has  never  succeeded  he  has  been  everywhere  and  tried  every- 
thing. I  have  not  done  him  justice  in  my  abridgment  of  his  Nome 
story.  His  recollections  are  so  intimate.  He  remembers  the  words 
spoken  in  every  situation  and  never,  no  matter  how  much  an  adven- 
ture centers  in  himself,  does  he  depart  in  what  he  tells  of  himself 
from  his  character  as  I  know  him. 

I  would  not  have  devoted  all  of  the  time  I  have  to  this  day's  entry 
if  I  had  not  a  good  day's  work  to  my  credit  including  the  conception  of 
a  new  picture  so  vivid  that  the  doing  of  it  will  be  mere  copying.  It  is 
the  "  North  Wind.  "  Surely  after  the  past  four  days  I  may  tell  with 
authority  of  that  wild  Prince  from  the  North. 

Wednesday,  December  eleventh. 

Yesterday  was  too  gloomy  a  day  for  me  to  risk  a  page  in  this  jour- 
nal. As  to  weather  it  was  another  fierce  one,  cold  and  windy.  As  to 
work  accomplished — nothing.  Olson  in  his  cabin,  on  such  a  day,  is 
a  treat  to  see.  I  open  the  door  and  enter.  There  he  sits  near  the 
stove,  a  black  astrakhan  cap  on  his  head  and  the  two  female  goats  in 
full  possession  of  the  cabin.  Nanny  the  milch  goat  is  a  most  affec- 
tionate creature.  She  lays  her  head  on  Olson's  lap  and  as  he  scratches 
her  head  her  eyes  close  in  blissful  content. 

"  See  her  pretty  little  face, "  says  Olson,  "  and  her  lovely  lips.  " 
He's  certainly  the  kindest  creature  to  animals — and  to  human  ones 
too  we  have  good  reason  to  know. 

121 


WILDERNESS 

To-day  it  is  milder.  The  vapor  is  thick  on  the  bay  but  it  lies  low 
upon  the  water  and  the  magnificent  mountains  sparkle  in  the  sunlight. 

Work  has  gone  better  for  me  and  it  has  been  a  day  not  without 
accomplishment.  I  baked  bread — beautiful  bread,  cut  wood,  helped 
Olson  a  bit,  and  had  a  glorious  rough-house  with  my  son.  He's  a 
great  fighter.  I  train  him  for  the  fights  he's  bound  to  have  some  day 
by  letting  him  attack  me  with  all  his  strength;  and  that  has  come 
to  be  not  a  little  thing. 


Friday,  December  thirteenth.. 

In  the  midst  of  letter  writing  I  stop  to  note  down  a  dramatic  cloud 
effect.  That's  the  way  the  day's  work  goes.  If  I'm  out-of-doors  busy 
with  the  saw  or  axe  I  jump  at  once  to  my  paints  when  an  idea  comes. 
It's  a  fine  life  and  more  and  more  I  realize  that  for  me  at  least  such 
isolation — not  from  my  friends  but  from  the  unfriendly  world — is  the 
only  right  life  for  me.  My  energy  is  too  unrestrained  to  have  offered 
to  it  the  bait  for  fight  and  play  that  the  city  holds  out,  without  its  being 
spent  in  absolutely  profitless  and  trivial  enterprises.    And  here  what 

122 


HOME 

a  haven  of  peace !  Almost  the  last  touch  is  added  to  its  perfection  by 
the  sweet  nature  of  the  old  man  Olson.  I  have  never  known  such  a 
man.  I'm  no  admirer  of  the  "  picturesqueness  "  of  rustic  character. 
Seen  close  to  it's  generally  damnably  stupid  and  coarse.  I  have  seen 
the  working  class  from  near  at  hand  and  without  illusion.  But  Olson ! 
he  has  such  tact  and  understanding,  such  kindness  and  courtesy  as 
put  him  outside  of  all  classes,  where  true  men  belong. 

To-night  it  looked  like  the  picture  I  have  drawn.  These  are 
beautiful  days.  Yesterday  it  was  as  calm  in  our  little  cove  as  one 
would  look  for  on  a  summer's  day.  The  day  was  blue  and  mild,  a  day 
for  work.  I  made  of  my  "  North  Wind  "  the  most  beautiful  pic- 
ture that  ever  was.  I  stood  it  facing  outwards  in  the  doorway  and 
from  far  off  it  still  showed  as  vivid,  more  vivid,  and  brilliant  than 
nature  itself.  It's  the  first  time  I've  taken  my  pictures  into  the  broad 
light.    There's  where  they  should  be  seen. 

Last  night  was  calm  until  four  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Then  the 
wind  again  struck  in  and  the  trees  roared  and  the  roof  creaked  and 
groaned.  To-day  it  was  calmer.  We  began  by  felling  a  tall  spruce 
more  than  two  feet  in  diameter.  It  lies  now  near  the  cabin  a  great 
screen  of  evergreen.  Its  wood  should  last  us  many  weeks.  I  painted 
out-of-doors  on  two  pictures.  That's  bitterly  cold  work — to  crouch 
down  in  the  snow;  through  bent  knees  the  blood  goes  slowly,  feet  are 
numbed,  fingers  stiffen.    But  then  the  warm  cabin  is  near.  .  .  . 

This  minute  I've  returned  from  splitting  wood  out  in  the  moon- 
light. On  days  when  painting  goes  with  spirit  the  chores  are  left 
undone. 

If  only  it  were  possible  to  put  down  faithfully  all  of  Olson's 
stories!  Last  night  he  told  of  his  return  to  San  Francisco  from  the 
Yukon  thirty  years  ago,  how  the  little  band  of  weather-beaten, 
crippled  miners  appeared  on  their  return  to  civilization.  Olson  was  on 
crutches  from  scurvy,  his  beard  and  hair  were  of  a  year's  growth; 

123 


WILDERNESS 

all  were  in  their  working  clothes,  all  bearded,  brown,  free  spirited. 
And  their  wealth  they  carried  on  them  in  bags,  gold,  some  to  S7000 
worth.  As  Olson  tells  it  you  yourself  live  in  that  day.  You  hear  the 
German  landlady  of  the  "Chicago  Hotel"  in  San  Francisco,  a 
motherly  woman  who  put  all  the  grub  on  the  table  at  once  so  you  could 
help  yourself,  say,  "  You  boys  have  some  of  you  been  in  Alaska  for 
years  and  I  know  about  how  you've  lived.  Now  that  you're  back  you 
must  have  a  hankering  for  some  things.  Tell  me  whatever  you  want 
and  I'll  get  it  for  you.  "  And  up  spoke  one  big  fellow,  "  I  remember 
how  my  mother  used  to  have  cabbage.  I  want  you  to  get  me  one  big 
head  and  cook  it  and  let  me  have  it  all  to  myself ! " 

That  night  they  went  to  the  music  halls  in  their  miners'  clothes 
all  as  they  were,  and  drank  gallons  of  beer;  and  from  the  boxes  and 
the  balconies  the  girls  all  clamored  to  be  asked  to  join  them — who 
were  such  free  spenders.  Two  days  later  they  were  paid  in  coin  for 
their  gold — by  the  mint — and  all  went  to  the  tailors  and  got  them  fine 
suits  of  clothes.  .  .  .  And  so  it  continues.  And  he  told  of  Custer's 
massacre.  And,  to-night  of  the  sagacity  of  horses  in  leading  a  trapper 
back  to  the  traps  he'd  set  and  maybe  lost.  When  a  horse  swims  with 
you  across  a  stream  guide  him  with  your  hand  on  his  neck,  but  pull 
not  ever  so  little  on  the  line  or  he'll  rear  backwards  in  the  water  and 
likely  drown  himself  and  you. 

Saturday,  December  fourteenth. 

A  pretty  useless  day.  No  work  accomplished  but  the  daily  chores. 
What  is  there  to  say  of  such  a  day.  Olson  brought  over  his  letter  to 
Kathleen  to-night  and  read  it  to  us.  It's  just  like  him  to  be  really 
himself  even  at  letter  writing.  The  letter  is  full  of  nice  humor. 
"  She'll  think  what  kind  of  an  old  fool  is  that,"  he  said,  "  but  what 
do  I  care.  I'll  just  say  whatever  I  feel  like  saying."  And  he  always 
does.    In  a  mild  way  he  lives  Blake's  proverb,  "  Always  speak  the 

124 


FOREBODING 


HOME 

truth  and  base  men  will  avoid  you."     Some  people  have  found  Olson 
very  rough  and  ill-mannered. 

Made  bread  to-night  and  stamped  about  seventy-five  envelopes 
with  my  device.  To-night  it  is  mild  and  overcast.  A  light  snow  has 
begun  to  fall.  So  far  this  winter  the  fall  of  snow  has  been  extremely 
light.  It  should  bank  up  almost  to  the  cabin's  eaves.  .  .  .  My  bed 
awaits  me.    Good-night. 

Sunday,  December  fifteenth. 

This  is  another  day  that  is  hardly  worth  recording,  one  that  would 
not  be  missed  from  a  life. 

It's  time  something  were  again  said  about  young  Rockwell  who  is 
the  real,  live,  crowning  beauty  of  the  community.  Weeks  have  passed 
since  I  last  recorded  his  fresh  delight  in  everything  here.  It  is  the 
same  to-day.  For  hours  he  plays  alone  out-of-doors.  Now  he's  an 
animal  crawling  on  all  fours  along  the  trunk  of  a  tree  that  I  have 
felled,  going  out  upon  its  horizontal  branches  as  the  porcupines  do, 
hiding  himself  in  the  foliage  and  growling  fiercely — hours  long  it 
seems — while  the  foolish  goats  flee  in  terror  and  the  foxes  race  wildly 
up  and  down  the  extent  of  their  corral.  Again  he's  a  browsing  creature 
eating  the  spruce  needles  with  decided  relish, — doing  it  so  seriously. 
Truly  he  lives  the  part  he  plays  when  it  is  one  of  his  beloved  wild 
creatures.  Then  he  tears  up  and  down  the  beach  mounted  like  a  four- 
year-old  kid  on  a  stick  horse,  yelling  as  loud  as  he  can,  going  to  the 
water's  edge,  and  racing  the  swell  as  it  mounts  the  slope.  And  pres- 
ently I  capture  him  for  his  end  of  the  saw.  At  that  he  no  longer 
knows  fatigue, — he's  as  good  as  a  man.  He  really  never  tires  and  the 
work  goes  on  with  a  fine,  jolly  good-will  that  makes  of  the  hardest 
chore  one  of  the  day's  pleasures.  Rockwell  is  lonely  at  times;  but 
if  he  tells  me  he'd  like  somebody  to  play  with  he's  sure  to  add  in  the 
same  breath,  "Ah  well,  never  mind." 

127 


WILDERNESS 

I  don't  know  how  such  a  haphazard  education  if  continued  would 
fit  him  for  participation  in  the  "practical "  affairs  of  life.  But  I  am 
convinced  that  if  all  the  little  beauties  of  spirit  that  can  now  be  seen 
budding  could  be  allowed  free,  clean  growth,  quite  away  from  the 
brutal  hand  of  mass  influences,  we'd  have  nothing  less  than  the  full 
and  perfect  flowering  of  a  human  soul ; — and  in  our  reachings  toward 
supermanhood  none  can  do  more. 

Here,  as  an  example,  is  an  achievement  of  his  imagination  that  it  is 
hard  to  picture  as  surviving  long  in  the  atmosphere  of  a  large  school. 
Rockwell  for  two  or  three  years  has  called  himself  the  "  mother  of 
all  things.  "  It  is  not  a  figure  of  speech  with  him  but  an  attitude  to- 
wards life.  If  it  were  the  creed  of  a  great  poet — and  it  could  be — 
the  discerning  critic  might  discover  it  to  be  of  the  profoundest  signifi- 
cance in  modern  thought.  In  little  Rockwell  it  is  of  one  piece  with  his 
whole  spirit  which  expresses  itself  in  his  love  for  all  animals,  the 
fiercest  to  the  mildest,  and  for  all  growing  things.  The  least  manifes- 
tation of  that  which  is  thought  to  be  typical  cruelty  of  boys  outrages 
his  whole  nature. 

I  am  far  from  believing  Rockwell  to  be  a  unique  example  of 
childhood.  I  think  that  while  cruelty  appears  uppermost  where  boys 
herd  together,  the  love  of  animals  is  no  less  characteristic  of  many 
sensitive  children.  But  of  this  I  am  certain, — that  nothing  will  make 
a  child  more  ridiculous  in  the  eyes  of  the  mob  child  than  this  most 
perfect  and  most  beautiful  attitude  of  some  children  toward  life.  In 
considering  the  education  of  a  child  and  weighing  what  is  to  be  gained 
or  lost  by  one  system  or  another  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  no  gain 
can  outweigh  the  loss  to  a  child  of  its  loving,  non-predatory  impulses. 

Tuesday,  December  seventeenth. 

Once  a  miner  died  and  presently  found  his  way  to  the  gates  of 
heaven. 

128 


3NE   MAN 


HOME 

"  What  do  you  want?  "  said  St.  Peter. 

"  To  come  in,  of  course." 

"  What  sort  of  man  are  you?  " 

"I'm  a  miner." 

"  Well,"  said  St.  Peter,  "  we've  never  had  anyone  of  that  kind 
here  before,  so  I  suppose  you  might  as  well  come  in." 

But  the  miner  once  within  the  gates  fell  to  tearing  up  the  golden 
streets  of  heaven,  digging  ditches  and  tunnels  all  over  the  place  and 
making  a  frightful  mess  of  it  all.  At  last  a  second  miner  presented 
himself  at  the  gates. 

"Not  on  your  life,"  said  St.  Peter.  "We  have  one  miner  here 
and  we  only  wish  we  knew  some  way  to  get  rid  of  him.  He's  tearing 
up  the  whole  place. 

"Only  let  me  in,"  said  the  second  miner,  "and  I'll  promise  to 
get  rid  of  that  fellow  for  you."    So  St.  Peter  admitted  him. 

This  second  miner  easily  found  the  other  who  was  hard  at  work 
amid  a  shower  of  flying  earth.  Going  up  to  him  he  cried  in  an  under- 
tone :  "  Partner !    They've  struck  gold  in  Hell ! " 

The  miner  dropped  his  work  and  sprang  toward  the  gates. 
"Peter,  Peter,  open,  open!  Let  me  out  of  Heaven,  I'm  off  to 
Hell!" 

What  a  book  of  yarns  and  jokes  this  is  becoming!  To-day 
work  went  a  little  better — and  the  weather  a  little  worse.  It 
pours.  For  the  end  of  December  it  is  wonderfully  mild;  but 
vhen  I  expect  little  really  cold  weather  here.  To-night  it  is  full 
moon.  The  tide  is  at  its  highest  for  the  year  and  the  southeast 
wind  piles  the  water  up  till  it  reaches  and  overflows  the  land. 
Olson  expects  it  to  touch  his  house  to-night  if  the  wind  continues. 
Tree  trunks,  uprooted  somewhere  from  the  soil,  monstrous  and 
grotesque,  grind  along  our  beach;  the  water  is  full  of  driftwood 
and  wreckage. 

131 


WILDERNESS 

Wednesday,  December  eighteenth. 

There's  a  little  bucket  of  dough  that  stands  forever  on  the  shelf 
behind  the  stove.  Sour  dough  is  made  with  yeast,  flour,  and  water 
to  the  consistency  of  a  bread  sponge  and  then  allowed  to  stand  in- 
definitely. For  all  that  you  take  out  you  add  more  flour  and  water  to 
what's  left  in  the  bucket  and  that  shortly  is  as  fit  for  use  as  the  origi- 
nal mixture.  Alaskans  use  it  extensively  as  the  basis  for  bread  and 
hot  cakes.  You  add  but  a  pinch  of  soda  and  a  little  water  to  the 
proper  consistency  and  it's  all  ready  for  use.  The  old  time  Alaskans 
rejoice  in  the  honorable  title  of  "  Sour  Doughs." 

Olson's  cabin  in  Seward  stands  comfortably  on  a  little  lot  in  a 
quite  thickly  settled  part  of  the  town.  I  wondered  at  his  affluence  in 
possessing  a  house  and  lot.  Here  is  its  history  as  he  told  it  to  me  to- 
night. When  Olson  first  came  to  Seward  he  built — or  he  bought 
already  built — a  little  cabin  standing  on  a  part  of  the  beach  now  occu- 
pied by  the  railroad  yard.  In  course  of  time  he  went  to  Valdez  for  a 
winter's  work.  Returning,  he  found  no  cabin.  It  was  gone  from  that 
spot  and  he  has  not  found  it  since.  But  corporations  and  govern- 
ments are  nothing  to  Olson  when  he  feels  himself  injured.  He  went 
to  one  official  and  said,  "  See  here !  Winter's  at  hand  and  I  have  no 
house,  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?"  Well,  they  would  see 
what  could  be  done,  and  in  time  referred  him  to  a  higher  authority. 
"I  want  a  cabin,"  Olson  said  to  this  one.  "If  you  don't  give  me  the 
lumber  to  build  one  with  I'll  have  to  steal  it  from  you.  I  have  no 
money  and  no  cabin.  Winter  is  here  and  I'm  certainly  going  to  live 
in  a  cabin  this  winter."  So  they  gave  him  an  old  shed  to  tear  down 
and  use  but  told  him  not  to  build  on  the  beach.  The  town  of  Seward 
was  laid  off  in  lots.  By  the  stakes  Olson  could  tell  a  lot  from  a  street, 
and  fair  and  square  on  a  lot,  somebody's  lot,  he  put  his  cabin.  The 
owner  of  the  land  was  tolerant  and  let  it  stay  there  a  few  years ;  but 
one  day  he  ordered  Olson's  house  taken  off.    So  Olson  carried  it 

132 


HOME 

somehow  out  into  the  middle  of  the  street  where  it  fitted  in  nicely 
among  the  tree  stumps.  Well  and  good  for  a  little  time  till  in  the 
summer  before  last  the  town  of  Seward  improved  that  street  and  sent 
a  man  and  team  to  remove  the  stumps.  "If  you're  paid  to  remove 
the  stumps  you  may  as  well  move  my  house  for  me,  "  said  Olson. 
"Where  to?"  asked  the  man.  "You  can  suit  yourself,"  said  Olson. 
So  the  cabin  was  again  planted  on  a  "desirable"  lot  of  somebody's, 
— and  there  it  stands  to-day,  neat  and  trim,  with  a  little  wooden  walk 
connecting  its  doorway  with  the  plank  sidewalk  of  the  street.  Alaska 
is,  to  be  sure,  a  great  free  country ! 

To-day  has  been  wonderfully  mild  and  comfortable.  From  time 
to  time  the  rain  has  fallen  gently.  Over  the  water  the  clouds  have 
drooped,  hiding  the  mountain  peaks.  The  sea  has  been  glassy  save 
for  the  long  swell — and  this  more  to  be  heard  upon  the  beach  than 
seen.  Rockwell  and  I  at  dusk  walked  the  shore  out  to  the  point  be- 
tween the  coves.  We  saw  the  glowing  sky  where  the  sun  had  set, 
the  mountainous  islands  to  the  southward,  and  our  own  cove  and  its 
mountain  ramparts — beautiful  in  the  black  and  white  of  the  spruces 
and  the  snow.  If  I  but  had  my  prepared  canvas  I'd  make  large  studies 
of  the  many  views  from  this  point. 

Rockwell  at  dinner  begged  me  repeatedly  to  have  part  of  his 
junket  besides  my  own.  I  wondered  at  it  for  although  he  is  always 
considerate  and  polite  this  was  almost  too  much.  And  in  other  ways 
I  noticed  his  alacrity  to  be  obliging.  Later  in  the  day  he  told  me, 
after  much  embarrassment,  that  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  be 
nicer  about  everything  and  to  do  more  for  me, — and  yet  I  had  pre- 
viously found  no  fault  with  him ;  how  could  I !  So  ends  a  day ; — and 
again  I  think  that  in  this  country  I  would  gladly  live  for  years. 


133 


CHAPTER  VHI 


CHRISTMAS 


Thursday,  December  nineteenth. 

^^^^^fcHIS  day  is  never  to  be  forgotten,  so  beautiful,  so  calm, 
M^^^    so  still  with  the  earth  and  every  branch  and  tree  muffled 
^  in  deep,  feathery,  new-fallen  snow.     And  all  day  the 

^^^^  softest  clouds  have  drifted  lazily  over  the  heaven 
shrouding  the  land  here  and  there  in  veils  of  falling 
snow,  while  elsewhere  or  through  the  snow  itself  the  sun  shone. 
Golden  shadows,  dazzling  peaks,  fairy  tracery  of  branches  against  the 
blue  summer  sea !  It  was  a  day  to  Live, — and  work  could  be  forgotten. 
So  Rockwell  and  I  explored  the  woods,  at  first  reverently  tread- 
ing one  path  that  the  snow  about  us  might  still  lie  undisturbed. 
But  soon  the  cub  in  the  boy  broke  out  and  he  rolled  in  the 
deepest  thickets,  shook  the  trees  down  upon  himself,  lay  still 
in  the  snow  for  me  to  cover  him  completely,  washed  his  face  till 
it  was  crimson,  and  wound  up  with  a  naked  snow-bath.    I  photo- 

134 


CHRISTMAS 

graphed  him  standing  thus  in  the  deep  snow  at  the  water's  edge 
with  the  mountains  far  off  behind  him.  Then  he  dried  himself 
at  the  roaring  fire  we'd  made  ready  and  felt  like  a  new  boy — if 
that  can  be  imagined.  We  both  sketched  out-of-doors  for  a  little 
while  in  the  morning  like  young  lady  amateurs.  I  tried  it  again 
two  or  three  times  throughout  the  day  with  indifferent  results ;  it 
was  too  beautiful.  We  cut  wood  too,  and  that  went  with  a  zest. 
While  Rockwell  dried  himself  after  his  bath  I  searched  in  the 
woods  for  a  Christmas  tree  and  cut  a  fair-sized  one  at  last  for 
its  top.  Christmas  is  right  upon  us  now.  To-night  the  cranberries 
stew  on  the  stove. 

Friday,  December  twentieth. 

The  beautiful  snow  is  fast  going  under  the  falling  rain!  With 
only  five  more  days  before  Christmas  it  is  probable  we'll  have 
little  if  any  snow  on  the  ground  then.  A  snowless  Christmas  in 
Alaska ! 

This  day  was  as  uneventful  as  could  be.  Part  of  the  morning  was 
consumed  in  putting  a  new  handle  into  the  sledge  hammer.  It  was 
too  dark  to  paint  long,  really  hardly  an  hour  of  daylight.  These  days 
slip  by  so  easily  and  with  so  little  accomplished!  Only  by  burning 
midnight  oil  can  much  be  done. 

Sunday,  December  twenty-second. 

Both  yesterday  and  to-day  it  has  poured  rain.  They've  not  been 
unpleasant  days,  however.  Occasional  let-ups  have  allowed  us 
to  cut  wood  and  get  water  without  inconvenience.  This  morning 
Olson,  fearing  that  a  continuance  of  the  mild  weather  would  melt 
the  ice  in  the  lake  and  send  his  bags  of  fish  to  the  bottom,  went 
out  to  the  center  of  the  lake  where  they  hung  suspended  through 

135 


WILDERNESS 

a  hole  in  the  ice  and  brought  them  in.  But  so  precarious  has  the 
ice  become  that  he  carried  a  rope  and  took  me  along  in  case  of 
trouble.  To  get  out  upon  the  ice  we  had  to  go  some  distance  along 
the  lake's  shore. 

Returning  we  missed  meeting  Rockwell  who  had  gone  to  join  us. 
Not  for  some  time  did  it  occur  to  me  to  call  him.  It  was  well  I  did 
call.  The  poor  boy  on  not  seeing  us  had  suddenly  concluded  we  were 
drowned.  A  strip  of  water  separated  him  from  the  ice.  He  was  on 
the  point  of  wading  into  this  at  the  moment  I  called  him.  He  was  still 
terribly  excited  when  he  reached  us. 

Both  days  I  have  been  occupied  with  humble,  housewifely  duties, 
— baking,  washing,  mending,  and  now  the  cabin  is  adorned  with  our 
drying  clothes.  Here  where  water  must  be  carried  so  far  it  is  the 
wet  days  that  are  wash  days.  Darning  is  a  wretched  nuisance. 
We  should  have  socks  enough  to  tide  us  over  our  stay  here.  Last 
night  after  Rockwell  had  been  put  to  bed  I  sat  down  and  did  two 
of  the  best  drawings  I  have  made.  At  half  past  twelve  I  finished 
them,  and  then  to  calm  my  elation  a  bit  for  sleep  read  in  the 
"  Odyssey."  At  this  my  second  reading  of  the  book  it's  as  in- 
tensely interesting — or  more  so — than  before.  As  a  story  it  is  in- 
comparably better  than  the  "Iliad."  To  me  it  is  full  of  suggestions 
for  wonderful  pictures. 

Ten  days  from  now  it  comes  due  for  Olson  to  go  to  Seward.  If 
only  then  we  have  mild,  calm  weather !  But  as  yet  we  have  seen  no 
steamer  go  to  Seward  since  early  in  the  month.  It  looks  as  if  the 
steamship  companies  had  combined  to  deprive  Alaska  of  its  Christ- 
mas mail  and  freight  in  a  policy  of  making  the  deadlock  with  the 
government  over  the  mail  contracts  intolerable.  Meanwhile,  instead 
of  serving  us,  the  jaunty  little  naval  cruisers  that  summered  here  in 
idleness  doubtless  loaf  away  the  winter  months  in  comfortable  south- 
ern ports. 

136 


IAIN 


CHRISTMAS 

Monday,  December  twenty-third. 

Up  to  this  morning  the  hard  warm  rain  continued,  and  now  the 
stars  are  all  out  and  it  might  be  thought  a  night  in  spring.  At  eight- 
thirty  I  walked  over  in  sneakers  and  underwear  for  a  moment's  call 
on  Olson,  but  he  had  gone  to  bed.  And  now  although  we'll  have  no 
snow  the  weather  is  fair  for  Christmas. 

If  Olson  believes,  as  he  says,  that  Christmas  will  pass  as  any  other 
day  he  is  quite  wrong.  The  tree  waits  to  be  set  up  and  it  will  surely  be 
a  thing  of  beauty  blazing  with  its  many  candles  in  this  somber  log  in- 
terior. I've  given  up  the  idea  of  dressing  Olson  as  Santa  Claus  in  goat's 
wool  whiskers.  Santa  Claus  without  presents  would  move  us  to  tears. 
There  are  a  few  little  gifts, — a  pocketknif e  and  a  kitchen  set  of  knife, 
fork,  and  can-opener  for  Olson.  An  old  broken  fountain  pen  for  Rock- 
well, some  sticks  of  candy, — and  the  dinner !  What  shall  it  be?  Wait ! 

It  is  midnight.  I've  just  finished  a  good  drawing.  The  lamp  is 
about  at  its  accustomed  low  mark — yesterday  it  had  to  be  filled  twice ! 
Those  nights  when  without  a  clock  I  sat  up  so  late  and  to  so  uncertain 
an  hour  I  have  discovered  by  the  lamp  and  clock  together  to  have  been 
really  long.  My  bedtime  then  was  after  two  or  three  o'clock — but  I 
arose  later.  To-day  I  finished  a  little  picture  for  Olson  and  so  did 
Rockwell.  These  were  forgotten  in  my  list  of  presents  as  I've  just 
written  it.  I  have  shown  in  my  picture  the  king  of  the  island  himself 
striding  out  to  feed  the  goats  while  Billy,  rearing  on  his  hind  legs, 
tries  to  steal  the  food  on  the  way.  Rockwell's  picture  is  of  Olson 
surrounded  by  all  the  goats  in  a  more  peaceful  mood.  Olson's  cabin 
is  in  the  background.  I  wish  we  had  more  to  give  the  good  old  man. 
At  any  rate  he  dines  with  us. 

Christmas  Eve ! 

We've  cleaned  house,  stowed  everything  away  upon  shelves  and 
hooks  and  in  corners,  moved  even  my  easel  aside ;  decorated  the  roof 

139 


WILDERNESS 

timbers  with  dense  hemlock  boughs,  stowed  quantities  of  wood 
behind  the  stove — for  there  must  be  no  work  on  that  holiday — 
and  now  both  Rockwell  and  I  are  in  a  state  of  suppressed  excitement 
over  to-morrow. 

What  a  strange  thing !  Nothing  is  coming  to  us,  no  change  in  any 
respect  in  the  routine  of  our  lives  but  what  we  make  ourselves, — and 
yet  the  day  looms  so  large  and  magnificent  before  us !  I  suppose  the 
greatest  festivals  of  our  lives  are  those  at  which  we  dance  ourselves. 
You  need  nothing  from  outside, — not  even  illusion.  Certainly  chil- 
dren need  to  be  given  scarcely  an  idea  to  develop  out  of  it  an  atmos- 
phere of  mystery  and  expectation  as  real  and  thrilling  to  themselves 
as  if  it  rested  upon  true  belief. 

Well,  the  tree  is  ready,  cut  to  length  with  a  cross  at  the  foot  to 
stand  upon,  and  a  cardboard  and  tin-foil  star  to  hang  at  its  top.  And 
now  as  to  Christmas  weather.  This  morning,  as  might  just  as  well 
have  been  expected,  was  again  overcast.  Toward  evening  light  snow 
began  to  fall.  It  soon  turned  to  rain  and  the  rain  now  has  settled 
down  to  a  gentle,  even,  all-night-and-day  pace.  Let  it  snow  or 
rain  and  grow  dark  at  midday!  The  better  shall  be  our  good 
Christmas  cheer  within.  This  is  the  true  Christmas  land.  The  day 
should  be  dark,  the  house  further  overshadowed  by  the  woods,  tall 
and  black.  And  there  in  the  midst  of  that  somber,  dreadful  gloom 
the  Christmas  tree  should  blaze  in  glory  unrivaled  by  moon  or  sun 
or  star. 

Christmas  Day  on  Fox  Island. 

It  is  mild ;  the  ground  is  almost  bare  and  a  warm  rain  falls.  First 
the  Christmas  tree  all  dripping  wet  is  brought  into  the  house  and  set 
upon  its  feet.  It  is  nine  feet  and  a  half  high  and  just  touches  the  peak 
of  the  cabin.  There  it  stands  and  dries  its  leaves  while  Rockwell  and 
I  prepare  the  feast. 

140 


[JPERMAN 


CHRISTMAS 

Both  stoves  are  kept  burning  and  the  open  door  lets  in  the 
cool  air.  Everything  goes  beautifully;  the  wood  burns  as  it  should, 
the  oven  heats,  the  kettle  boils,  the  beans  stew,  the  bread  browns 
in  the  oven  just  right,  and  the  new  pudding  sauce  foams  up  as 
rich  and  delicious  as  if  instead  of  the  first  it  were  the  hundredth 
time  I'd  made  it.  And  now  everything  is  ready.  The  clock  stands 
at  a  quarter  to  three.  Night  has  about  fallen  and  lamp  light  is 
in  the  cabin. 

"  Run,  Rockwell,  out-of-doors  and  play  awhile."  Quickly  I  stow 
the  presents  about  the  tree,  hang  sticks  of  candy  from  it,  and  light 
the  candles. 

Rockwell  runs  for  Mr.  Olson,  and  just  as  they  approach  the  cabin 
the  door  opens  and  fairyland  is  revealed  to  them.  It  is  wonderful. 
The  interior  of  the  cabin  is  illuminated  as  never  before,  as  perhaps 
no  cabin  interior  ever  was  among  these  wild  mountains.  Then  all 
amazed  and  wondering  those  two  children  come  in.  Who  knows 
which  is  the  more  entranced? 

Then  Olson  and  I  drink  in  deep  solemnity  a  silent  toast ;  and  the 
old  man  says,  "I'd  give  everything — yes  everything  I  have  in  the 
world — to  have  your  wife  here  now! " 

And  the  presents  are  handed  out.  For  Olson  this  picture  from 
Rockwell.  Ah,  he  thinks  it's  wonderful!  Then  for  Rockwell  this 
book — a  surprise  from  Seward.  Next  for  Olson  a  painting,  a  kitchen 
set,  and  a  pocketknife.  By  this  time  he's  quite  overcome.  It's  the 
first  Christmas  he  has  ever  had !  And  Rockwell,  when  he  is  handed 
two  old  copies  of  the  "  Geographic  Magazine  "  cries  in  amazement, 
"  Why  I  thought  I  was  to  have  no  presents ! "  But  he  gets  besides  a 
pocketknife  and  the  broken  fountain  pen  and  sits  on  the  bed  looking 
at  the  things  as  if  they  were  the  most  wonderful  of  gifts. 

Dinner  is  now  set  upon  the  table.  Olson  adjusts  his  glasses  and 
reads  the  formal  menu  that  lies  at  his  place. 

143 


WILDERNESS 


So  we  feast  and  have  a  jolly  good  time. 

It  is  a  true  party  and  looks  like 
one.  Rockwell  and  I  are  in  clean 
white  shirts,  Olson  is  magnificent 
in  a  new  flannel  shirt  and  his  Sun- 
day trousers  and  waistcoat.  He 
wears  a  silk  tie  and  in  it  a  gold 
nugget  pin.  He  is  shaven,  and 
clipped  about  the  ears.  How  grand 
he  looks!  The  food  is  good  and 
plentiful,  the  night  is  long,  only  the 
Christmas  candles  are  short-lived 
and  we  extinguish  them  to  save 
them  for  another  time.  Finally  as 
the  night  deepens  Olson  leaves  us 
amid  mutual  expressions  of  delight 
in  each  other's  friendship,  and  Rock- 
well and  I  tumble  into  bed. 

The  next  day  and  the  next  it  is 

mild,  resting — the  weather  seems  to 

be — at  this  peaceful  holiday  season. 

"We  cut  no  wood  and  do  little  work. 

We  write  long  letters,  both  of  us, 

and  consume  at  meal-time  the  food 

left  over  from  Christmas.    I  read  the 

jfvt,  xai,e»s       £0n-*0„s  "Odyssey,"  great  story!    Just  now 

Jfon,*  su,re*  jVott,*  Ccc(er  I  am  past  that  magnificent  slaughter 

+  of  the  wooers,   else  these  delayed 

.**,«<■  Ajr  *Ae  German  Sane/.      pages  would  still  be  unwritten.    A 

few  more  Odysseys  to  read  here  in  this  wild  place  and  one  could 

forget  the  modern  world  and  return   in  manners  and  speech  and 

144 


ic,  j  a 

**■  JCors  cf'evrrej     *■ 

O tires 

7>tcktes 
+  €nfree        + 

*  &o£t  «- 

-Mvr/y+ffes  c*t  Catsero/e 
C ' ranberry   *Jat/cc 
+       JJessert  + 

2)cmt     Jetsje 


CHRISTMAS 

thought  to  the  heroic  age.  That  would  be  an  adventure  worth  try- 
ing !  Maybe  we  are  not  so  deeply  permeated  with  the  culture  of  to- 
day that  we  could  not  throw  it  off.  Surely  the  spirit  of  the  heroes 
strikes  home  to  our  hearts  as  we  read  of  them  in  the  ancient  books. 

Saturday,  December  twenty-eighth. 

For  the  first  time  in  days  the  sun  has  risen  in  a  clear  sky  and 
shone  upon  the  mountains  across  from  us.  It  is  colder,  for  ice  has 
formed  again  on  the  tub  of  water  out-of-doors.  But  there  is  a  little 
wind. 

I  am  writing  in  preparation  for  Olson's  trip.  He  too  is  making 
ready.  Food  for  the  foxes  is  on  the  stove  for  many  days'  feeding, 
his  engine  gets  a  little  burnishing — it's  no  insignificant  voyage  to 
Seward  in  the  winter.  If  only  it  holds  out  fair  and  calm  until  a  steamer 
comes!  There's  the  hitch  now.  We  have  seen  none  go  to  Seward 
since  the  first  of  the  month. 

To-morrow  probably  the  Christmas  tree  must  come  down.  The 
hemlock  trimmings  shed  all  over  the  cabin  till  to-day  I  tore  them  out. 
Last  night  we  had  our  final  lighting  of  the  tree.  Rockwell  and  I  stood 
out-of-doors  and  looked  in  at  it.  What  a  marvelous  sight  in  the 
wilderness.  If  only  some  hapless  castaways  had  strayed  in  upon  us 
lured  by  that  light !  We  sang  Christmas  carols  out  there  in  the  dark, 
did  a  Christmas  dance  on  the  shore,  and  then  came  in  and  while  the 
tree  still  burned  told  each  other  stories.  Rockwell's  story  was  about 
the  adventures  of  some  children  in  the  woods,  full  of  thrilling  climaxes. 
It  came  by  the  yard.  I  told  him  of  an  Indian  boy  who,  longing  for 
Christmas,  went  out  into  the  dark  woods  at  night  and  closed  his  eyes. 
And  how  behind  his  closed  eyes  he  found  a  world  rich  in  everything 
the  other  lacked.  There  was  his  Christmas  tree  and  to  it  came  the 
wild  animals.  They  got  each  a  present,  the  mother  porcupine  a  box 
of  little  silken  balls  to  stick  onto  her  quills  for  decoration,  and  the 

145 


WILDERNESS 

father  porcupine  a  toothbrush  because  his  large  teeth  were  so  very 
yellow.  After  the  story  it  was  bedtime.  Well  .  .  .  this  fair  day  has 
passed,  and  with  the  night  have  come  clouds  and  a  cold  gloom  fore- 
boding snow.  But  I  have  learned  to  expect  nothing  of  the  weather 
but  what  it  gives  us. 

Sunday,  December  twenty-ninth. 

Squirlie's  birthday  party.  Squirlie  is  seated  in  a  condensed  milk 
box.  At  his  back  hangs  a  brown  sweater.  About  him  stand  his 
presents  consisting  chiefly  of  feathers.  The  table  is  spread  with  the 
feast  in  shells  and  the  whole  is  brilliantly  illuminated  by  a  Christmas 
tree  candle.  Long  life  to  Squirlie  and  may  he  never  fall  to  pieces  nor 
be  devoured  by  moths ! 

Monday,  December  thirtieth. 

Yesterday  it  rained  gently,  to-day  it  pours.  I  sit  here  with  the 
door  open  and  the  stove  slumbering — such  weather  in  this  country 
that  the  world  believes  to  be  an  iceberg !  But  in  Seward  and  on  the 
mountains  no  doubt  it  is  snowing  enough.  To-day  I  made  so  good  a 
drawing  that  I'm  sitting  up  as  if  the  flight  of  time  and  the  coming  of 
morning  were  no  concern  of  mine.    It  is  half -past  twelve ! 

New  Year's  Eve!  Tuesday.  This  is  the  tenth  anniversary  of 
Rockwell's  parents  and  I  have  kept  it  as  well  as  I  could,  working  all 
day  upon  a  drawing  for  his  mother  and  to-night  holding  a  kind  of  song 
service  with  Rockwell.  Rockwell,  who  at  nine  years  has  every  reason 
to  celebrate  to-day,  however  he  may  feel  at  twenty-nine,  has  written 
his  mother  a  sweet  little  letter.  I'm  terribly  homesick  to-night  and 
don't  know  what  to  say  about  it  in  these  genial  pages.  It  has  been  a 
solemn  day. 

When  Olson  was  here  to-night  I  began  from  playing  the  flute  to 
sing.    He  was  delighted  and  I  continued.    What  a  strange  performance 

146 


rHE  NORTH  WIND 


CHRISTMAS 

here  in  the  wilderness,  a  little  boy,  an  old  man,  listening  as  I  sing 
loudly  and  solemnly  to  them  without  accompaniment.  Olson  brought 
us  a  pan  of  goat's  milk  to-day,  as  he  often  does.  I  make  junket  of  it 
and  it  is  a  truly  delicious  dish,  ever  so  much  better  than  when  made 
of  cow's  milk.    It  resembles  a  jelly  of  pure  cream. 

It  has  rained  hard  most  of  the  day.  At  times  a  mist  has  hung  in  a 
band  halfway  up  the  mountain's  height  across  the  bay.  It  is  a  remark- 
able sight.  To-night  is  as  warm  as  any  night  in  spring  or  autumn. 
It  thaws  continually  and  even  the  ice  that  once  covered  the  ground 
beneath  the  snow  is  fast  disappearing.  The  year  goes  out  without  a 
steamer  having  been  seen  to  come  with  the  Christmas  mail. 

It  is  close  to  midnight.  I  have  one  secret  resolution  to  make  for 
the  new  year  and,  that  I  may  make  it  as  earnestly  and  as  truly  as 
possible,  the  stars  and  the  black  sky  shall  be  my  witness.  And  so 
with  the  year  nineteen  hundred  and  eighteen  I  end  this  page. 


149 


CHAPTER  IX 


NEW  YEAR 

O  Rockwell  who  asked  what  happened  on  the  New  Year 

_  that  everybody  sat  up  to  see  it  come  we  tried  hard  to 

A  tell  all  sorts  of  yarns  about  explosions  and  rumblings, 

^^fc^^     but  he  wouldn't  believe  a  bit  of  it.     He  might  have 

said,  "How  can  anything  like  that  happen  here  where 

nothing  ever  comes  from  the  sky  except  rain?" 

So  far  the  new  year  is  just  exactly  like  the  old's  latter  end  but 
that  it  is  more  joyous.  And  the  joy  came  at  eleven-thirty  P.M.  of 
January  first,  gliding  by  about  two  miles  out  in  the  bay,  a  dazzle  of 
lights  like  a  fairy  citadel,  the  STEAMER !  At  my  cry  Rockwell  sat 
up  in  bed  and  gazed  too.  Olson  unfortunately  was  in  bed  and  we  did 
not  call  him.  So  I  set  at  once  to  work  writing,  tying  up  parcels,  making 
lists,  until  two  o'clock  of  this  morning. 

At  eight  we  had  Olson  out  of  bed.  I  hung  about  there  threatening 
him,  ordering  him,  begging  him  to  hurry.  Old  men  are  hard  to  move 
fast.  He  shaved  standing  up  there  in  his  cabin  with  the  door  wide 
open  and  the  goats  playing  about  him.  I  let  him  have  a  bite  of  break- 
fast, but  not  much.  The  dory  had  to  be  unbound — for  we  tie  them  to 
the  ground — and  turned  right-side  up,  and  loaded  and  launched, — but 

150 


NEW   YEAR 

all  that  only  after  half  an  hour's  cranking  of  the  engine,  the  infernal 
things !  It  would  look  like  snow  one  minute  and  be  fair  the  next ;  but 
it  held  fair  enough  finally  for  Olson  to  get  off  and  disappear — to  our 
immense  joy.    He  laughs  at  our  eagerness  to  get  him  off  for  the  mail. 

Yesterday  was  Olson's  day  for  celebrating  and  many  times  we 
drank  to  the  New  Year  together.  But  I  would  work,  to  his  disgust. 
Still  he  understands  pretty  well  the  strange  madness  that  possesses 
me,  and  is  not  at  all  unsympathetic.  I  explained  to  him  one  day  the 
difference  between  working  to  suit  yourself  and  working  to  suit  other 
people.  He'd  defy  the  world  at  any  time  he  chose  no  matter  how 
poor  his  fortunes. 

Well,  now  we  wait  for  mail.  Already  I'm  impatient  for  Olson's 
return  and  that  cannot  well  be  before  the  day  after  to-morrow.  Rock- 
well and  I  walked  around  the  bay  in  the  afternoon  more  to  have  a 
look  toward  Seward  where  our  mail  comes  from  than  for  anything 
else.  But  Seward  was  hidden  in  falling  snow.  All  the  bay  was 
shrouded  in  mist  and  snow.  But  our  own  cove  was  beautiful  to  look 
back  upon  with  its  white  peaks  and  dark  forest,  and  far  down  at  the 
water's  edge  our  tiny  cabins  from  one  of  which  the  thick  smoKe  of 
the  smoldering  fire  curled  upwards. 

Sunday,  January  fifth. 

Olson  is  still  away.  It  is  wearing  to  wait  this  way  in  hope, — for 
we  will  hope  even  if  the  wind  blows  and  the  snow  falls.  And  so  it  has 
done.  The  day  following  Olson's  departure  it  was  wonderfully  fair 
and  calm,  but  the  next  day,  it  being  the  day  he  should  have  returned, 
a  heavy  snowstorm  set  in.  And  to-day  with  less  snow  there  was 
more  wind, — not  so  much  that  he  could  not  have  come  but  enough 
that  he  didn't.  We  walked  down  the  beach  and  scanned  the  bay 
with  the  glasses,  and  up  to  dark  I  looked  continually  for  the  little 
boat  to  be  rounding  the  headland. 

151 


WILDERNESS 

It  seems  as  if  that  were  all  the  news,  but  the  days  have  really  been 
full  of  work  and  other  interest.  The  snow  itself,  lying  deep  and  light 
and  over  all — even  the  tree  tops — is  a  delight.  Rockwell  and  I 
played  bear  and  hunter  to-day  tracking  each  other  in  the  woods. 
Only  the  goats  are  miserable  these  days  with  their  browse  all  covered 
but  what  they  can  gnaw  from  the  tree  trunks.    Billy  at  this  season  is 


ANOTHER  OF  ROCKWELL'S  DRAWINGS 

a  fury.  One  has  really  to  go  armed  with  a  clout.  Yesterday  he  burst 
in  the  door  of  Olson's  shed  and  then  inside  managed  to  shut  the 
door  on  himself.  When  I  investigated  the  strange  banging  that  I'd 
been  hearing  for  some  time,  I  found  him.  He  had  even  piled  things 
against  the  door.  While  no  actual  damage  has  been  done  he  has 
tossed  every  blessed  thing  about  with  his  horns.  Boxes,  pails,  sacks 
of  grain,  cans,  rope,  tools,  all  lie  piled  in  confusion  about  the  floor. 
It  does  no  good  to  beat  the  creature.  He  will  learn  nothing.  It  is 
about  one-thirty  a.  m.  I've  written  more  than  I  intended  writing. 
My  heart  is  set  upon  the  mail  and  nothing  else. 

152 


NEW    YEAR 

Monday,  January  sixth. 

With  Olson  still  away  and  the  mail  with  him  what  can  there  be  to 
report.  It  snows.  It  is  so  mild  that  we  walk  about  hatless,  coatless, 
mittenless.  Drip,  drip,  drip,  goes  it  from  the  eaves  continuously. 
The  snow  has  fallen  from  the  trees.  On  the  ground  it  lies  deep  and 
heavy.  To-morrow  maybe  we  shall  take  to  snowshoes.  Rockwell 
and  I  each  took  a  trip  along  the  beach  to  look  for  Olson.  As  I  stood 
there  peering  into  the  haze  toward  Seward  a  head  arose  from  the 
water  close  to  me.  It  was  a  seal.  He  looked  all  about  him  for  the 
greatest  while,  went  under,  reappeared  again  near  by  once  more,  and 
then  was  gone.  Billy  burst  open  that  shed  of  Olson's  again.  Some 
day  I  shall  murder  a  goat ! 

Wednesday,  January  eighth. 

Two  more  days  and  Olson  still  away.  I'm  furious  at  him.  Yester- 
day he  could  well  have  come,  to-day  it  has  been  impossible.  We 
seem  to  do  little  here  but  wait.  Even  at  the  height  of  to-day's  storm 
I  found  myself  continually  going  to  the  little  window  to  look  for  a  boat. 
Rain  and  snow,  rain  and  snow !  Ah,  if  only  we  had  our  mail  here — 
then  these  warm,  white  days  would  be  delightful.  Yesterday  we  wore 
our  snowshoes  for  the  first  time,  but  only  to  tramp  down  the  cove  and 
look  toward  Seward. 

The  only  recompense  for  Olson's  absence  is  Nanny's  milk.  I'm 
an  expert  milker  now  and  can  do  the  job  before  she  finishes  her  cup 
of  oats.  I  hare  to,  for  at  the  finish  she  leaps  madly  to  escape  me. 
Goat's  milk  junket  and  orange  marmalade ;  sublime ! 

Friday,  January  tenth. 

One  hour  ago  it  was  as  beautiful  a  moonlit  night  as  one  ever 
beheld.    The  softest  veils  of  cloud  passed  the  moon  and  cast  over  the 

153 


WILDERNESS 

earth  endlessly  varied,  luminous  shadows.  The  mountain  tops,  trees, 
rocks,  and  all,  are  covered  with  new  snow;  the  valleys  and  the  lower 
levels  are  black  where  rain  has  cleared  the  trees.  It  is  so  beautiful 
here  at  times  that  it  seems  hard  to  bear.  And  now  at  this  moment 
the  rain  falls  as  if  it  had  fallen  for  all  time  and  never  would  cease.  Oh 
Olson,  Olson !  Is  it  anything  to  you  in  your  old  age  to  be  so  madly 
wanted?  Here  it  truly  is  conceivable  that  any  condition  of  bad 
weather  could  visit  us  for  months  without  relief.  There  seems  no 
rhyme  or  reason  to  it  until-  you  see  it  as  the  reverse  of  marvelously 
fair  weather ;  a  blue  sky  is  here  as  wrong  as  rain  in  a  rainless  desert 
land. 

Nothing  has  happened.  I  am  making  good  drawings  and  have 
made  two  small  woodcuts.  Billy  to-day  again  tackled  the  door  of 
Olson's  shed.  My  fixing  of  the  lock  proved  too  good.  That  held — 
while  he  burst  the  door  to  pieces.  I  caught  him  at  the  finish  of  it; 
I  become  a  maniac  at  such  a  time.  I  pursued  the  beast  with  a  club 
in  a  mad  chase  through  the  heavy  snow,  catching  him  often  enough 
to  get  some  satisfaction  at  least  in  the  beating  I  gave  him.  He  fears 
me  now  and  that's  something  gained.  But  it's  a  bad  matter  both  for 
Billy  and  for  me. 

It  is  now  after  midnight  and  I've  just  finished  a  drawing.  Rock- 
well is  concerned  about  these  late  hours  and  when  I  told  him  that  I 
could  work  so  very  well  alone  at  night  he  seriously  suggested  that 
I  send  him  out  in  the  daytime  to  stay  all  day  without  dinner  so  that  I 
could  work  better.  I'm  reading  about  King  Arthur  and  the  round 
table  to  him;  that's  good  for  both  of  us.  He  has  made  himself  a 
lance  and  a  sword  and  to-morrow  I  expect  to  confer  some  sort  of 
knighthood  upon  him.  Apropos  of  the  book  of  King  Arthur,  Rockwell 
said  to-day,  "I  don't  think  the  pictures  in  the  book  are  half  nice 
enough.  I  think  of  a  wonderful  picture  when  you  read  the  story  and 
then  when  I  see  the  one  in  the  book  I'm  disappointed."    And  these 

154 


WELTSCHMERZ 


NEW   YEAR 

King  Arthur  pictures  are  rarely  good  in  execution.  It  just  shows  that 
one  need  not  attempt  to  palm  off  unimaginative  stuff,  much  less  trash, 
on  children.  The  greatest  artists  are  none  too  good  to  make  the 
drawings  for  children's  books.  Imagination  and  romance  in  pictures 
and  stories  a  child  asks  for  above  all,  and  those  qualities  in  illustra- 
tion are  the  rarest. 

Monday,  January  thirteenth. 

Of  the  three  days  that  have  again  passed  two  have  been  quite 
fair  enough  for  Olson  to  have  come.  Both  yesterday  and  to-day 
Rockwell  and  I  made  frequent  trips  down  the  shore  to  look  for 
him.  It  is  terribly  depressing  to  have  your  heart  set  upon  that 
mail  that  doesn't  come.  I  begin  to  think  that  some  other  cause 
than  the  weather  holds  Olson  away.  It  is  possible  that  the  steamer 
we  saw  going  to  Seward  was  no  mail  steamer,  and  that  Olson, 
who  has  gone  for  his  pension  money,  is  waiting  for  a  mail.  I  feel 
like  making  no  record  of  these  days.  I  take  pleasure  only  in  their 
quick  passage. 

Saturday  night  Rockwell  received  the  order  of  knighthood.  For 
three  quarters  of  an  hour  he  stayed  upon  his  knees  watching  over  his 
arms.  He  was  all  that  time  as  motionless  as  stone  and  as  silent. 
Now  he  is  Sir  Lancelot  of  the  Lake  and  jousts  all  day  with  imaginary 
giants  and  wicked  knights.  He  has  rescued  one  queen  for  himself 
but  as  yet  none  for  me. 

We  have  run  about  some  on  our  snowshoes,  though  the  snow  is 
nowhere  deep  enough  for  that  except  along  the  shore.  The  weather 
is  still  mild — hardly  freezing  at  all — and  it  forever  successively 
rains,  snows,  and  hails.  All  the  animals  are  still  alive.  I  don't 
love  them,  they're  rather  a  nuisance.  Nothing  could  be  less 
amusing  than  a  blue  fox, — small  creatures,  excessively  timid,  of 
cowed  demeanor.    Saturday  I  had  to  get  a  bag  of  fish  from  the 

157 


WILDERNESS 

lake  where  they  had  been  soaking  and  cook  up  another  great  sup- 
ply of  fox  food. 

Wednesday,  January  fifteenth. 

Yesterday  to  begin  with  a  snowstorm  and  then  a  clear,  gray  day. 
To-day  blue  sky  in  the  morning,  a  north  wind  and  bitter  cold;  gray 
again  at  noon  and  mild.  By  the  geological  survey  report  of  Kenai 
Peninsular,  January  should  average  in  temperature  at  Seward  six- 
teen degrees.  From  now  on  it  must  average  close  to  zero  to  give  us 
sixteen  for  the  month.  Here  it's  not  as  cold  as  New  York.  Rockwell 
bathed  to-night  standing  within  six  feet  of  the  open  door.  I  have 
definitely  decided  that  Olson  stays  for  some  cause  other  than  the 
weather,  although  to-day  and  yesterday  he  could  not  have  come. 
"We  snowshoed  a  bit  to-day.  Alaska  snowshoes  are  certainly  the 
easiest  that  ever  were  to  travel  on. 

Thursday,  January  sixteenth. 

Well,  after  to-day  there  remains  no  doubt  that  Olson  stays  away 
purposely — unless  he's  sick  or  dead.  Rockwell's  theory  that  Seward 
has  been  totally  swept  away  by  a  terrible  fire,  with  every  man,  woman, 
and  child  of  its  inhabitants,  I  disproved  to-night.  We  walked  down 
the  beach  and  there  were  the  lights  of  the  great  city  brighter  it  seemed 
than  ever.  Either  there  has  been  no  mail  boat  at  all  since  early  in 
December  or  there  has  been  no  mail  from  Juneau  whence  Olson's 
"check-que,"  as  he  calls  it,  comes.  Well  it  profits  us  nothing  to 
speculate  on  this. 

The  day  has  been  glorious,  mild,  fair,  with  snow  everywhere  even 
on  the  trees.  The  snow  sticks  to  the  mountain  tops  even  to  the 
steepest,  barest  peaks  painting  them  all  a  spotless,  dazzling  white. 
It's  a  marvelous  sight.  Rockwell  and  I  journeyed  around  the  point 
to-day  and  saw  the  sun  again.    To-night  in  the  brilliant  moonlight 

158 


VICTORY 


NEW   YEAR 

I  snowshoed  around  the  cove.  There  never  was  so  beautiful  a  land 
as  this !  Now  at  midnight  the  moon  is  overhead.  Our  clearing  seems 
as  bright  as  day, — and  the  shadows  are  so  dark!  From  the  little 
window  the  lamplight  shines  out  through  the  fringe  of  icicles  along 
the  eaves,  and  they  glisten  like  diamonds.  And  in  the  still  air  the 
smoke  ascends  straight  up  into  the  blue  night  sky. 

Saturday,  January  eighteenth. 

Two  beautiful  days,  these  last.  And  to-night  the  wind  blows  and 
the  snow  falls  and  it  is  very  cold.  The  days  are  uneventful.  We 
journey  many  times  down  the  beach  over  our  snowshoe  trail.  That's 
our  out-of-doors  diversion, — to  look  up  the  bay  toward  Seward.  But 
the  view  is  beautiful.  Loftier  mountains,  more  volcano  shaped  are 
about  Seward,  and  they're  dazzling  white. 

Yesterday  Rockwell  found  otter  tracks  crossing  from  the  salt 
water  to  the  lake, — a  lot  of  them.  It's  wonderful  to  think  that  those 
fine  creatures  have  crossed  the  five  long  miles  of  water.  Their  foot- 
prints are  as  large  as  a  good-sized  dog's.  They  seem  to  have  a  great 
time  frisking  about  as  they  travel.  On  one  little  slope  they  have 
made  a  slide.  No  footprints  are  there  at  all, — only  the  smoothly 
worn  track.  We  see  no  wild  life  as  a  rule  but  the  eagles.  They're  all 
about  in  plenty,  magnificent  birds  when  seen  close  to,  and  when  flying 
at  the  mountain's  height  still  surprisingly  large. 

The  milk  goat  is  dry, — so  that's  one  chore  less.  Rockwell  feeds 
the  goats  every  day,  but  I  can't  trust  him  with  the  foxes;  he'd  leave 
the  door  open  as  likely  as  not.  (It  was  reserved  for  Olson  himself  to 
let  this  happen.     May  twenty-ninth  he  writes  in  a  letter  to  me : 

"  Had  a  skear  or  acksedent  on  the  eighteenth,  i  vas  putteng  som  grase  in 
to  the  fox  Corrals  an  i  most  heav  left  the  hok  of  van  i  turnd  around  the  dor  vas 
open  and  i.  fox  goan  the  litle  f email  in  the  Corall  naxst  to  the  goat  Hous.  And 
the  fox  var  over  at  the  tant  i  cald  to  em  et  vas  suppertam  to  Com  bake  and  get 

161 


WILDERNESS 

som  sepper  and  He  sat  down  and  luckt  at  me  bot  finly  mosed  of  op  in  the  Hill, 
i  take  the  other  fox  and  put  em  in  the  other  Corall  and  left  the  2 — tow  Coralls 
open  and  put  feed  in  the  seam  es  nothing  ad  apen.  the  first  night  i  did  not 
sleep  vary  val.  the  sakond  night  and  not  showing  up,  bot  naxst  morning  i  Came 
out  to  the  Corall  the  feed  vas  goin  en  the  pan  and  the  fox  vas  sleping  on  the 
box  var  he  allves  du  and  i  felt  a  litle  Beatter  van  the  doors  ar  shut.") 


I'm  hard  at  work  painting  by  day  and  drawing  at  night.  Twenty- 
five  good  drawings  are  done.  On  the  fair,  warm  days  Rockwell  spends 
most  of  his  time  out-of-doors.  Being  Sir  Lancelot  still  delights  him 
and  there's  not  a  stump  in  the  vicinity  that  has  not  been  scarred  by 
his  attacks  with  lance  and  sword.  These  stumps  are  really  mostly 
all  giants.  I  am  now  reading  the  Department  of  Agriculture  year 
book.    It's  very  instructive. 

162 


NEW    YEAR 

Tuesday,  January  twenty-first. 

The  north  wind  rages  to-night.  It  is  cold  and  clear  starlight. 
With  the  violent  wind-gusts  the  snow  sweeps  by  in  clouds — sweeps 
by  except  for  what  sweeps  in,  Over  my  work  table  it  descends  in  a 
fine,  wet  spray  so  that  I've  had  to  cover  that  place  with  canvas  and 
work  elsewhere.  A  wild  day  it  has  been  and  a  wild  night  is  before  us. 
And  yesterday  was  little  brother  to  it. 

These  days  are  wonderful  but  they  are  terrible.  It  is  thrilling  now 
with  Olson  absent  to  reflect  that  we  are  absolutely  cut  off  from  all 
mankind,  that  we  cannot,  in  this  raging  sea,  return  to  the  world  nor 
the  world  come  to  us.  Barriers  must  secure  your  isolation  in  order 
that  you  may  experience  the  full  significance  of  it.  The  romance  of 
an  adventure  hangs  upon  slender  threads.  A  banana  peeling  on  a 
mountain  top  tames  the  wilderness.  Much  of  the  glory  of  this  Alaska 
is  in  the  knowledge  I  have  that  the  next  bay — which  I  may  never 
choose  to  enter — is  uninhabited,  that  beyond  those  mountains  across 
the  water  is  a  vast  region  that  no  man  has  ever  trodden,  a  terrible 
ice-bound  wilderness. 

We  begin  to  think  less  of  Olson's  return.  I  have  settled  to  my 
work  and  can  imagine  things  continuing  as  they  are  for  weeks.  They 
will  continue  so  unless  the  wind  forsakes  the  north.  Two  days  ago 
after  a  very  cold  night  we  awoke  to  thunder  and  lightning — and  snow ! 
In  two  hours  the  sun  was  out.  That  afternoon  I  stripped  and  danced 
awhile  in  the  snow — a  little  while.  Then,  after  a  hot  bath,  out  again 
in  my  nakedness  for  a  roll  in  the  snow,  dressed, — and  felt  a  new  man. 
Rockwell  loves  it  all  more  and  more.  He  seems  absolutely  contented 
and  spends  hours  a  day  outdoors. 

What  a  marvel  is  a  child's  imagination !  It  is  a  treat  for  Rockwell 
to  play  "  man-eater  "  at  bedtime  and  attack  me  furiously.  And  if  at 
any  time  I'll  just  enter  his  pretend-world  it's  all  he  can  wish  for. 
Another  filthy  mess  of  fox-food  has  been  prepared  and  a  new  sack  of 

163 


WILDERNESS 

salt  fish  put  to  soak  in  the  lake.  I  do  hate  that  chore.  Pioneering  I 
relish ;  ranching  I  despise,  at  least  blue  fox  ranching.  The  miserable 
things  slink  about  so  in  such  sick  and  mean  spirited  fashion. 

Thursday,  January  twenty-third. 

Sometimes  the  smoke  goes  up  the  flue — and  sometimes  down. 
And  that's  not  good  for  the  fire.  I  sit  within  six  inches  of  the  stove 
with  a  frozen  nose  and  icy  feet.  The  wind  sifts  through  the  walls. 
Now,  with  our  moss  calking  shrunken  and  dried  and  shriveled 
further  with  the  cold,  our  cabin  would  be  light  without  windows. 
These  are  so  far  the  coldest  days  of  winter.  Although  it  blows 
straight  from  the  north,  whence  only  fair  weather  comes,  the  day  is 
dark  with  drifting  snow  cloud  high.  The  water  of  the  bay  is  hidden 
in  driving  vapor.  We  cut  wood  and  stuff  it  everlastingly  into  the 
stove.  To-day  seventy  pieces  for  the  ravenous  air-tight,  big  chunks, 
have  been  cut  and  split — and  we'll  cut  again  to-morrow.  But  with  all 
the  trouble  of  cold  weather  we'd  be  mightily  disappointed  if  the  winter 
slipped  by  without  it. 

It's  a  real  satisfaction  to  find  that  my  calculations  in  supplies,  in 
bedding,  in  heating  equipment  were  just  right  for  conditions  here. 
We're  running  low  now  in  cereals  and  milk  but  we  had  planned  to 
visit  Seward  this  month  to  restock.  Olson's  absence  is  quite  outside 
of  all  plans.    If  he  isn't  sick  it's  hard  to  explain  reasonably  in  any  way. 

For  the  past  three  weeks  I  have  made  on  an  average  no  less  than 
one  good  drawing  a  day,  really  drawings  I'm  delighted  with.  I've 
struck  a  fine  stride  and  moreover  a  good  system  for  my  work  here  to 
continue  upon.  During  the  day  I  paint  out-of-doors  from  nature  by 
way  of  fixing  the  forms  and  above  all  the  color  of  the  out-of-doors  in 
my  mind.  Then  after  dark  I  go  into  a  trance  for  a  while  with  Rockwell 
subdued  into  absolute  silence.  I  lie  down  or  sit  with  closed  eyes 
until  I  "  see  "  a  composition, — then  I  make  a  quick  note  of  it  or  may- 

164 


ARATHUSTRA  AND   HIS   PLAYMATES 


NEW  YEAR 

be  give  an  hour's  time  to  perfecting  the  arrangement  on  a  small  scale. 
Then  when  that's  done  I'm  care  free.  Rockwell  and  I  play  cards  for 
half  an  hour,  I  get  supper,  he  goes  to  bed.  When  he's  naked  I  get  him 
to  pose  for  me  in  some  needed  fantastic  position,  and  make  a  note  of 
the  anatomy  in  the  gesture  of  my  contemplated  drawing.  Little  Rock- 
well's tender  form  is  my  model  perhaps  for  some  huge,  hairy  ruffian. 
It's  a  great  joke  how  I  use  him.  Generally  I  have  to  feel  for  the  bone 
or  tendon  that  I  want  to  place  correctly. 

Last  night  I  drew  laughing  to  myself.  A  lion  was  my  subject.  I 
have  often  envied  Blake  and  some  of  the  old  masters  their  ignorance 
of  certain  forms  that  let  them  be  at  times  so  delightfully,  impressively 
naive.  I've  thought  it  matters  not  a  bit  how  little  you  know  about  the 
living  form  provided  you  proceed  to  draw  the  thing  according  to  some 
definite,  consistent  idea.  Don't  conceal  your  ignorance  with  a  slur, 
be  definite  and  precise  even  there.  Well,  by  golly,  this  lion  gave  me 
my  chance  to  be  unsophisticated;  such  a  silly,  smirking  beast  as  I 
drew!  At  last  it  became  somewhat  rational  and  a  little  dignified, 
but  it  still  looks  like  a  judge  in  a  great  wig.  But  a  lion  that  lets  a 
naked  youth  sleep  in  his  paws  as  this  one  does  may  be  expected  to  be 
a  little  unbeastly.  When  I  began  to  write  these  pages  to-night  the 
stars  were  out.    Now  it  snows  or  hails  on  the  roof ! 

Saturday,  January  twenty-fifth. 
It  is  bitterly  cold  weather,  as  cold  continuously  as  I've  ever  ex- 
perienced. Both  yesterday  and  to-day  the  wind  has  been  excep- 
tionally violent  and  the  air  full  of  flying  snow.  Both  of  Olson's  water 
barrels — in  the  house — have  frozen  solid.  One  bulged  and  burst 
the  bottom  rolling  itself  off  onto  the  floor. 

Sunday,  January  twenty-sixth. 
A  day  of  hard  work  with  Rockwell  in  bed  for  a  change.    Just  a 
little  stomach  upset — and  he's  all  right  now.    Felled  a  tree  and  cut 

167 


WILDERNESS 

up  fifteen  feet  of  it,  taking  advantage  of  this  glorious  day.  It  was  much 
milder  than  for  days  it  has  been  and  it  still  holds  so  to-night.  There's 
no  wind  and  that  makes  ever  so  much  difference  in  the  cabin.  Now 
if  it  will  hold  calm  and  mild  for  a  day  we'll  see  whether  or  not  Olson 
is  yet  ready  to  return. 

Tuesday,  January  twenty-eighth. 

I'm  reading  " Zarathustra,"  "Write  with  blood,  and  thou  wilt 
learn  that  blood  is  spirit."  So  that  book  was  written.  Last  night  I 
made  a  drawing  of  Zarathustra  leading  the  ugliest  man  by  the  hand 
out  into  the  night  to  behold  the  round  moon  and  the  silver  water- 
fall. What  a  book  to  illustrate!  The  translator  of  it  says  that 
Zarathustra  is  such  a  being  as  Nietzsche  would  have  liked  him- 
self to  be, — in  other  words  his  ideal  man.  It  seems  to  me  that 
the  ideal  of  a  man  is  the  real  man.  You  are  that  which  in  your 
soul  you  choose  to  be;  your  most  beautiful  and  cherished  vision 
is  yourself.  What  are  the  true,  normal  conditions  of  life  for  any 
man  but  just  those  perfect  conditions  with  which  he  would  ideally 
surround  himself.  A  man  is  not  a  sum  of  discordant  tenden- 
cies— but  rather  a  being  perfect  for  one  special  place;  and  this  is 
Olson's  creed. 

My  chief  criticism  of  Zarathustra  is  his  taste  for  propagan- 
da. Why,  after  all,  concern  himself  with  the  mob.  In  picturing 
his  hero  as  a  teacher  has  not  Nietzsche  been  tricked  away  from 
a  true  ideal  to  an  historical  one?  Of  necessity  the  great  selfish 
figures  of  all  time  have  gone  down  to  oblivion.  It's  the  will  of 
human  society  that  only  the  benefactors  of  mankind  shall  be 
cherished  in  memory.  A  pure  ideal  is  to  be  the  thing  yourself, 
concerning  yourself  no  bit  with  proving  it.  And  if  the  onward 
path  of  mankind  seems  to  go  another  way  than  yours — proud  soul, 
let  it. 

168 


FROZEN   FALL 


\' 


NEW   YEAR 

Wednesday,  January  twenty-ninth. 

Alaska  can  be  cold!  Monday  broke  all  records  for  the  winter. 
Tuesday  made  that  seem  balmy.  It  was  so  bitterly  cold  here  last 
night  in  our  "tight  little  cabin"  that  we  had  to  laugh.  Until  ten 
o'clock  when  I  went  to  bed  the  large  stove  was  continuously  red  hot 
and  running  at  full  blast.  And  yet  by  then  the  water  pails  were 
frozen  two  inches  thick — but  ten  feet  from  the  stove  and  open  water 
at  supper  time,  my  fountain  pen  was  frozen  on  the  table,  Rockwell 
required  a  hot  water  bottle  in  bed,  the  fox  food  was  solid  ice,  my  paste 
was  frozen,  and  that's  all.  My  potatoes  and  milk  I  had  stood  near  the 
stove.  At  twelve  o'clock  the  clock  stopped — starting  again  from  the 
warmth  of  breakfast  cooking.  I  put  the  water  pail  at  night  behind 
the  stove  close  to  it,  and  yet  it  was  solid  in  the  morning.  We  burn  an 
unbelievable  amount  of  wood,  at  least  a  cord  a  week  in  one  stove. 
So  I  figure  we  earn  a  dollar  a  day  cutting  wood.  We  felled  another 
tree  to-day  and  cut  most  of  it  up.  Still  we  manage  to  gain  steadily  with 
our  wood  pile  always  in  anticipation  of  worse  weather.  Last  night  at 
sundown  the  bay  appeared  indescribably  dramatic.  Dense  clouds 
of  vapor  were  rising  from  the  water  obscuring  all  but  a  few  peaks  of 
the  mountains  and  darkening  the  bay.  But  above  the  sun  shone 
dazzlingly  on  the  peaks  and  through  the  thinner  vapor,  coloring  this 
like  flames.  It  was  as  if  a  terrible  fire  raged  over  the  bay.  This 
morning  for  hours  it  was  dark  from  clouds  of  vapor.  They  swept  in 
over  our  land  and  coated  the  trees  of  the  shore  with  white  frost. 

Yesterday  I  had  to  go  to  the  lake  and  chop  out  a  bag  of  fish  for  the 
foxes.  I  returned  covered  with  ice  and  the  fish  were  frozen  solid 
before  I  reached  the  cabin.  I  cut  them  up  to-day  with  the  axe  and 
cooked  a  week's  supply  of  food  for  the  foxes. 

Rockwell  has  been  a  trump.  The  weather  can't  be  too  cold  for 
him.  This  morning  he  pulled  his  end  of  the  saw  without  rest.  He 
rarely  goes  out  now  without  his  horse,  lance,  and  sword  and  he  ad- 

171 


WILDERNESS 

dresses  me  always  as  "  My  lord."  Surely  Lancelot  himself  was  no 
gentler  knight.  And  now  it's  bedtime.  The  cold  is  less  than  last 
night  but  still  I  sit  huddled  at  the  stove.  It  is  the  bitter  wind  that 
makes  the  trouble. 

Thursday,  January  thirtieth. 

A  splendid  day  of  wood  cutting.  It  was  milder  and  quite  windless 
in  our  cove,  although  in  the  bay  there  were  whitecaps.  A  light  snow 
had  begun  to  fall  by  noon  and  it  continues.  To  increase  our  lead  on 
the  weather  we  set  to  work  upon  a  twenty-eight  inch  tree.  We  had  to 
throw  it  somewhat  against  its  natural  lean  and  it  was  a  terrible  job. 
The  wedge  would  not  enter  the  frozen  tree  and  when  it  at  last  did  it 
wouldn't  lift  the  great  mass  that  rested  on  it.  Only  after  an  hour's 
continuous  pounding  with  the  heavy  sledge-hammer  did  I  drive  the 
wedge  in  clear  to  the  head,  and  then  the  great  tree  fell.  The  fall  of 
one  of  these  monsters — for  to  us  they  seem  gigantic — is  thrilling. 
This  one  went  straight  where  we  had  aimed  it,  down  a  narrow  avenue 
in  the  woods.  Ripping  and  crashing  it  fell  carrying  down  a  smaller 
tree  with  its  limbs.  Then  Rockwell  and  I  set  to  work  with  the  saw. 
When  the  drums  were  split  we  hauled  them  to  the  cabin  on  Olson's 
Yukon  sled.  And  now  our  wood  pile  is  a  joyous  sight,  while  within 
the  cabin  we  have  a  whole,  cold  day's  supply. 

Last  night  just  as  I  was  going  to  bed  Rockwell  began  to  talk  in  his 
sleep  about  some  wild  adventure  with  his  imaginary  savages.  I  asked 
him  if  he  were  cold.  "No,  my  lord,"  he  murmured  and  slept  on. 
Very  fine  barley  soup  to-day.  Water  in  which  barley  had  been  boiled, 
two  bouillon  cubes,  onions  browned  in  bacon  fat.  Rockwell  said  it 
was  the  best  yet. 

Saturday,  February  first. 
Again  the  days  are  like  spring.   Yesterday  began  the  thaw  and  to- 
day continues  it  with  rain  most  of  the  time.    So  we've  stayed  within 

172 


IE   HERMIT 


NEW   YEAR 

doors,  Sir  Lancelot  and  my  lordship  working  here  at  our  craft.  I  have 
just  completed  my  second  drawing  for  the  day.  One  a  day  has  been 
the  rate  for  a  month — but  yesterday  the  spirit  didn't  work.  But  the 
news!  A  great,  old  tramp  steamer  entered  yesterday.  That  must 
carry  mail  and  freight  and  send  Olson  back  to  us.  If  only  it  were  a 
regular  liner  I'd  know  for  sure.  It  is  possible  this  steamer  has  been 
chartered  to  relieve  the  situation.  Well — the  next  fair,  calm  day  will 
show. 

Sunday,  February  second. 

It's  before  supper.  Rockwell,  who  has  just  run  out-of-doors  for  a 
romp,  calls  at  this  moment  that  he  has  lost  his  slipper  in  the  snow  and 
is  barefooted.  Out-of-doors  is  to  us  like  another  room.  Mornings 
we  wash  in  the  snow,  invariably.  And  with  a  mug  of  water  in  hand 
clean  our  teeth  out  there — and  this  in  the  coldest  weather.  We  scour 
our  pots  with  snow  before  washing  them,  throw  the  dish  water  right 
out  of  the  door,  and  generally  are  in  and  out  all  day.  ...  It  is  surely 
nonsense  to  think  that  changes  of  temperature  give  men  colds. 
Neither  of  us  has  had  a  trace  of  a  cold  this  winter,  we  haven't  even 
used  handkerchiefs — only  sleeves.  Nor  does  it  give  one  a  cold  to  be 
cold.  I've  tried  that  often  enough  to  know.  And  a  variable  climate 
has,  too,  nothing  to  do  with  it,  for  what  variableness  could  exceed 
an  Alaska  winter.  Colds,  like  bad  temper  and  loss  of  faith,  are  a 
malady  of  the  city  crowd. 

It  rains — this  moment,  the  next  it  will  hail — and  then  snow. 
Sometime  to-day  the  sun  has  shone,  sometime  the  wind  has  blown, 
and  for  the  rest  been  calm.  Altogether  it  has  been  too  uncertain  for 
us  to  expect  Olson.  And  now  for  the  sour-dough  hot  cakes  and 
supper.    For  Rockwell,  barley,  "  the  marrow  of  men." 

Rockwell  to-day  asked  me  how  kings  earned  their  living.  I  said 
they  didn't  earn  it — just  got  the  people  to  give  it  to  them. 

i75 


WILDERNESS 

"What's  that,"  he  said  laughing,  "some  sort  of  a  joke  they  play 
on  the  people?  " 

So  I  guess  it  takes  education  to  appreciate  privilege.  Incidentally, 
the  war  must  be  over  and  the  heroes,  having  proved  by  their  might 
that  might  does  not  make  right — or  that  it  does?  ( !)  now  have  doffed 
the  soldier's  uniform  of  glory  for  the  little-honored  clothes  of  toil. 

Monday,  February  third. 

We  are  in  the  second  month  of  Olson's  absence.  To-day  it 
stormed  mostly;  heavy  snow  in  the  morning.  Through  the  thick  of  it 
we  heard  faintly  a  steamer  whistle.  It  seemed  to  be  receding,  out- 
ward bound.  At  four  o'clock  while  a  light  snow  fell  the  lightning 
played  merrily  and  thunder  crashed.  It  is  like  this :  snow  for  half  an 
hour,  then  rain — silence  and  calm  for  a  few  minutes.  Suddenly  huge 
hailstones  pelt  the  roof,  for  all  the  world  like  rocks.  This  lasts  a  few 
seconds,  there's  a  fierce  gust  of  wind  showering  ice  and  snow  from 
the  tree  tops  down  upon  us,  again  calm  and  silence — and  the  per- 
formance is  ready  to  begin  again. 

Tuesday,  February  fourth. 

It  has  been  so  changeable  to-day  that  we  are  still  uncertain  of 
Olson's  intentions.  We  snowshoed  down  the  beach  in  the  beautiful, 
soft,  new  snow  so  at  least  to  have  a  look  toward  Seward.  There  lay 
the  bay  calm  and  beautiful — and  spotless.  The  scale  of  things  is  so 
tremendous  here  that  I've  little  idea  how  far  we  shall  be  able  to  see 
the  little,  bobbing  boat  when  it  does  come. 

We  sawed  a  lot  of  wood  to-day  bringing  our  pile  clear  up  into  the 
gable  peak.  It  becomes  a  mania  seeing  the  pile  grow.  In  quiet 
weather  we  cut  to  forestall  the  storm ;  in  the  storm  we  still  cut  to  be 
well  ahead  for  days  that  may  be  worse.  It  is  beautifully  mild  now. 
On  February  first  Rockwell  brought  in  some  budding  twigs.     The 

176 


5CSTASY 


NEW   YEAR 

alders  all  seem  to  be  in  bud  and  some  charming,  red-stemmed  shrubs 
as  well.  It  is  midnight  and  past.  My  drawing  is  finished,  the  stove  is 
piled  for  the  night,  cereal  and  beans  in  place  upon  it,  so — Good-night. 

Wednesday,  February  fifth. 

A  beautiful  snowstorm  all  the  day  and  to-night,  still  and  mild. 
Rockwell  has  been  out  in  it  all  day  dressed  in  my  overalls  and  mittens. 
He  plays  seal  and  swims  in  the  deep  snow.  We  built  a  snow  house 
together.  It  is  now  about  seven  feet  in  diameter  inside  and  as  cozy 
as  can  be.  I'm  sure  Rockwell  will  want  to  sleep  there  when  it's 
finished.    A  curtain  of  icicles  hangs  before  our  little  window. 

I  have  carefully  figured  the  cost  of  our  living  here  from  the  food 
bills,  all  of  which  I  have  kept.  I  have  bought  $114.82  worth  of  pro- 
visions. I  still  have  on  hand  $19.10  worth.  For  one  hundred  and  fifty 
days  it  has  cost  us  sixty-four  cents  a  day  for  two,  or  thirty-two  cents 
each, — a  little  over  ten  cents  a  meal.  This  for  the  current  high  prices 
everywhere  and  additionally  high  in  Alaska  seems  very  reasonable 
living.    The  figures  include  the  very  expensive  Christmas  luxuries. 

Friday,  February  seventh. 

Yesterday,  THE  SUN  1  For  how  many  days  he  might  have  been 
shining  at  us  I  don't  know,  for  it  has  been  cloudy.  However  at  noon 
it  was  all  over  the  ground  about  us  and  shining  in  at  my  window. 
What  a  joyous  sight  after  months  of  shadow !  To-night  the  sun  at  set- 
ting again  almost  reached  us.  And  yesterday  as  if  spring  had  already 
come  we  begin  the  day  with  snow  baths  at  sunrise.  Ha !  That's  the 
real  morning  bath!  And  to-day  again.  We  step  out-of-doors  and 
plunge  full  length  into  the  deep  snow,  scour  our  bodies  with  it,  and 
rush  back  into  the  sheltering  house  and  the  red-hot  stove.  To  Rock- 
well belongs  all  credit,  or  blame,  for  this  madness.  He  will  do  it — 
and  I'm  ashamed  not  to  follow.    These  two  days  have  been  cold  and 

179 


WILDERNESS 

windy,  north  days, — but  how  beautiful!  All  of  the  day  Rockwell 
plays  out-of-doors  swimming  in  the  deep  snow,  now  a  seal,  again  a 
walrus.  Gee,  he's  the  great  fellow  for  northern  weather.  Cooked 
the  filthy  fox  mess  yesterday,  washed  clothes  to-day,  sawed  wood  on 
both.    Now  it's  twelve-thirty  at  night  and  I'm  tired. 

Saturday,  February  eighth. 

All  about  me  stand  the  drawings  of  my  series,  the  "  Mad  Hermit." 
They  look  mighty  fine  to  me.  Myself  with  whiskers  and  hair !  First, 
to-day,  when  the  storm  abated  a  bit,  we  sank  a  bag  of  fish  in  the  lake 
and  then  started  on  snowshoes  for  the  ridge  to  the  eastward.  The 
snow  lay  in  the  woods  there  heavy  and  deep.  No  breath  of  wind  had 
touched  it.  The  small  trees,  loaded,  bent  double  making  shapes  like 
frozen  fountains.  Some  little  trees  with  their  branches  starting  far 
from  the  ground  formed  with  their  drooping  limbs  domed  chambers 
about  their  stems.  Coming  down  it  was  great  sport.  We  could  slide 
down  even  in  our  sticky  snowshoes.  Rockwell,  who  was  soaked 
through,  undressed  and  spent  the  afternoon  naked,  playing  wild 
animal  about  the  cabin.  Then  at  six-thirty  we  both  had  hot  baths, 
and  snow  baths  following.  I  begin  to  relish  the  snow  bath.  Rockwell 
was  the  picture  of  health  and  beauty  afterwards  with  his  rose-red 
cheeks  and  blue  eyes. 

Monday,  February  tenth. 

Yesterday  morning  I  bathed  in  a  snowstorm,  this  morning  it  was 
too  terribly,  howlingly  blusterous  to  run  out  into  it.  And  now  since 
one  o'clock  it  is  as  calm  and  mild  as  it  ever  could  be.  Within  the 
cabin  it's  even  more  cozy  than  usual.  The  snow  is  banked  up  against 
the  big  window  to  a  third  the  window's  height.  By  day  the  light  seems 
curtained,  by  night  doubly  bright  from  reflected  lamplight.  Heavy 
drifts  are  everywhere.   Last  night  fine  snow  filtered  in  upon  our  faces 

180 


NEW   YEAR 

as  we  slept  but  not  enough  to  be  uncomfortable.  The  cabin  is  for- 
tunately placed  as  to  drifts  and  our  door-yard  remains  clear  with  a 
splendid  bathing  bank  skirting  it.  Rockwell  is  at  work  now  upon 
multiplication  tables.  He's  a  real  student  and  is  always  seriously 
occupied  with  something  in  his  hours  indoors. 


181 


\> 


CHAPTER  X 


OLSON! 

■"Bsj         E  returned  last  night,  the  eleventh  of  February,  in  a 

v"B^^     blaze  of  glory !    Ah,  the  wonder  of  it  and  of  all  he 

m     I     m     Drouglit.    Rockwell  and  I  sat  at  our  cards  just  before 

■    W    W     supper-time.     The  day,  a  calm  one,  a  fair  one,  had 

^^r     0*      passed  and  Olson  again  had  not  come.     We  were 

downcast.     Every  possible  cause  for  his  continued 

absence  had  been  reviewed   in  my  mind.     To  wait  longer  was 

not  to  be  endured.    And  so  we  sat  with  far-off  thoughts  and  toyed 

with  the  silly  cards.     Suddenly  the  long,  clear  sound  of  a  boat's 

horn  reached  us  from  the  night  outdoors.     We   ran  and  peered 

into  the  darkness.    At  last  we  saw  a  black  spot  moving  far  out 

on  the  water.     Oh   God!  it  was   entering  the  cove.     In  what  a 

frenzy  of  excitement  we  hurried  down  the  beach!     Nearer  they 

come  and  nearer,  men's  voices,  the  little  cabin  light,  and  the  vessel 

gliding  toward  us ;  they're  abreast  of  us,  they  drop  anchor.     "  Olson, 

Olson,"  I  shout,  "Olson,   is  that  you?"     "He's  aboard,"  is  an- 

182  M 


OLSON! 

swered,  "  How  are  you,  and  how's  the  little  boy?  "  We  see  them 
loading  a  dory  from  the  vessel's  deck, — and  now  they  row  it  to  the 
shore.  It's  good  to  see  a  fine  young  fisherman  and  shake  his  hand. 
Again  and  once  again  the  loads  are  ferried  in  and  carried  up  the 
long  and  slippery  low-tide  beach.  Rockwell  has  lighted  Olson's 
lamp,  he  sweeps  his  cabin,  and  starts  the  fire  in  the  stove.  At  the  last 
load  I  slip  aboard  the  vessel.  lam  "wanted."  There  stands  Olson 
swaying  gigantic  on  the  deck  above  us  as  we  bump  the  side.  A  bear's 
greeting !  Olson  is  radiant,  radiant  and  mellow  with  the  joy  of  home- 
coming and  the  warmth  of  tasted  spirits.  The  skipper  I  know,  yes ! 
the  good  Englishman,  Hogg,  who  had  us  once  to  dinner  at  his  camp. 
Down  in  the  cabin  in  the  heat  and  fumes  of  a  cooking  feast  we  tip  the 
friendly  bottle. 

Ah !  tell  me  not,  abstainer,  of  any  glories  you  have  known.  One 
night,  one  midnight  out  on  the  black  waters  of  a  Newfoundland  harbor, 
the  million  stars  above,  and  on  the  wretched  vessel's  deck  the  hoard 
of  half-drunk,  soul-starved  men  saying  their  passionate  farewells, — 
on  the  dull  plain  of  their  life  a  flash  of  lightning  revealing  an  abyss ; — 
this  night  on  the  still,  dark  cove  of  Resurrection  Bay,  rimmed  with 
wild  mountains  and  the  wilderness,  strong  men  about  you,  mad, 
loosened  speech  and  winged,  prophetic  vision, — God !  but  sane  day- 
light seeing  seems  to  touch  but  the  white,  hard  surface  of  where  life  is 
hidden. 

From  the  hot  cabin  I  climbed  the  boat's  ladder,  up,  up  onto  the 
world's  heights.  Ah,  how  the  cold,  clean  wind  from  the  wide  spaces 
then  swept  my  soul,  and  how  close  about  my  head  the  dome  of  heaven 
and  the  stars !  This  is  no  earth-ship  but  the  deck  of  a  meteor  vessel 
that  I  tread,  the  moon  ship  of  the  ancient  northern  gods. 

I  row  ashore  for  Rockwell,  stow  the  goods  higher  on  the  beach, 
and  we  return  aboard  for  supper.  Over  Rockwell  the  skipper  makes  a 
great  fuss,  says  he's  a  famous  oarsman  and  could  beat  his  daddy,  a 

183 


WILDERNESS 

fine,  big,  strong  boy.  Warm  hearted  skipper ! — and  he  reaches  again 
for  the  bottle  and  I  drink.  It's  vinegar!  Profuse  apologies,  and  the 
right  one  is  found. 

We  eat,  we  stuff ! — and  then  the  three  of  us,  Rockwell  laden  with 
presents  of  fruit,  say  good-night  and  row  ashore.  Poor,  tired  Olson 
has  little  strength  to  move  the  heavy  loads  from  the  beach.  No  matter, 
I  struggle  alone  and  finally  stow  them  in  his  cabin,  a  great  pile.  Then 
a  cup  of  coffee  with  the  old  man,  a  little  furious  talk  about  the  war, — 
fury  at  a  world  that  could  mess  things  so, — and  home  to  bed  where 
already  Rockwell  slept. 

This  morning  the  icy  bath.  Then  without  breakfast  we  began 
upon  our  mail.  What  a  wonderful  Christmas  at  last !  The  bed  was 
piled  high  with  presents,  the  table  high  with  letters.  We  sorted  and 
gloated  like  hungry  tigers  that  in  the  ecstasy  of  possession  merely 
lick  their  food.  All  through  the  morning  and  deep  into  the  afternoon 
I  read  the  mail.  Unwashed  dishes  stood  about,  for  meals  we  but 
ate  what  was  at  hand.  (Here  follows  in  the  journal  a  list  two  pages 
long  of  presents,  of  books — what  a  shelf  of  them! — woolen  clothes 
and  sheepskin  slippers,  music  for  the  flute,  plum-pudding,  candy, 
chocolate,  cigarettes, — and  ever  so  much  more.)  And  that  being 
about  seven  times  as  much  as  we've  ever  had  before  is  all.  Ah,  in 
the  wilderness  you  love  your  friends  and  they  too  think  of  you.  Better 
than  all,  though,  are  the  letters;  such  friendly  letters  never  were 
before. 

Friday,  February  fourteenth. 

The  days  go  like  the  wind.  So  warm  to-day  and  yesterday  1  We 
live  out-of-doors.  Now  as  I  write  the  door  stands  open  and  the  soft, 
moist,  spring  air  enters  to  dispel  the  fumes  of  turpentine.  I  primed 
eight  canvases  to-day,  six  of  which  I  had  also  stretched.  This 
afternoon  I  painted  at  the  northern  end  of  the  beach  almost  be- 

184 


ELAGIC    REVERIE 


OLSON! 

neath  a  frozen  waterfall,  an  emerald  of  huge  size  and  wonderful 
form. 

Rockwell  is  in  high  spirits.  I  think  the  augmentation  of  our  diet 
brought  by  Olson's  return  will  do  him  a  lot  of  good.  We  had  cut  down 
on  our  use  of  milk  to  a  can  in  two  or  three  days.  Now  we  may  live  on 
fish  which  Olson  has  in  such  quantities  that  we're  to  help  ourselves. 
Olson  has  insisted  on  my  accepting  a  fifty-pound  sack  of  flour  for  my 
services  during  his  six  weeks'  absence,  and  I  expect  to  find  it  hard  to 
be  allowed  to  return  the  cereals  that  I  am  borrowing.  What  a  con- 
trast this  free-handed  country  to  the  mean  spirit  of  Newfoundland ! 

Monday,  February  seventeenth. 

Three  days !  and  what  has  happened?  I  guess  that  on  the  first  of 
them  I  stretched  and  painted  canvas.  On  the  second  all  day  I  painted 
out-of-doors,  it  was  quite  summer-like  and  the  sun  shone  through  dia- 
mond-dripping trees.  And  to-day  I  have  written  from  early  morning 
before  breakfast  until  now,  eleven  at  night.  I  have  decided  to  go  to 
Seward  in  a  few  days.  It  has  become  necessary  to  go  back  to  New 
York  very  soon.  I  told  Rockwell  of  this  to-day  and  his  eyes  have 
scarcely  been  dry  since.  He  has  reasoned  with  me  and  inquired  into 
every  detail  of  the  situation.  He  doesn't  want  to  go  to  New  York 
nor  even  to  live  in  the  country  in  the  East.  There'll  be  no  ocean 
near  nor  any  warm  pond  for  bathing.  And  not  even  the  thought  that 
elsewhere  he'd  have  playmates  weighs  against  his  love  for  this  spot. 

You  should  see  Sir  Lancelot  now.  His  clothes  are  outgrown  and 
outworn.  They  hang  in  tatters  about  him.  His  trousers  are  burst 
from  the  knee  to  the  hip,  his  overalls  that  cover  them  are  rags.  His 
shirt  is  buttonless  but  for  two  in  front.  From  above  tattered  elbows 
his  sleeves  hang  in  ribbons.  His  hair  is  long  and  shaggy;  where  it 
hung  over  his  eyes  I  have  cut  it  off  short.  But,  his  fair  cheeks  are  as 
pink  as  roses,  his  eyes  are  beautiful  and  blue,  his  lips  are  red,  and  his 

187 


/ 


WILDERNESS 

face  glows  always  with  expression.  So  we  don't  care  a  rap  for  the 
rest — only  Rockwell  does !  One  day  after  he  had  regarded  for  a  long 
time  a  certain  unfortunate  photograph  of  himself  in  which  he  looked 
like  an  idiot,  he  said,  "  Father,  I'd  like  to  dress  up  some  day  and  put 
on  my  best  clothes  and  brush  my  hair, — because  I  want  to  see  if  I 
really  look  like  I  do  in  this  picture."  Rockwell  loves  to  look  well  and 
it's  a  real  treat  for  him  to  dress  up.  So,  that  being  the  case  and  his 
tidy  nature  being  so  well  assured  I  don't  trouble  a  bit  to  adorn  him. 
He  cleans  his  teeth  regularly  and  likes  to  do  it.  Mornings  we  get 
up  together  and  go  through  a  set  of  Dr.  Sargent's  exercises,  do  them 
with  great  energy.  Then  we  go  naked  out-of-doors.  The  period  of 
chattering  teeth  is  past.  No  matter  what  the  weather  is  we  go  calmly 
out  into  it,  he  down  in  the  drift,  look  up  into  the  sky,  and  then  scrub 
ourselves  with  snow.    It's  the  finest  bath  in  the  world. 

It  rains  to-day — or  snows.  The  snow  lies  three  feet  deep  on  the 
level.  At  our  windows  it  is  above  the  sills.  In  Seward, — have  I 
written  this  before? — it  lies  so  deep  that  one  can't  see  across  the 
street.  The  snow  is  the  deepest,  and  that  last  cold  snap  the  coldest, 
of  any  winter  remembered  or  recorded.  The  cold  was  very  many 
degrees  below  zero.  So  we  have  experienced  a  true  winter.  We're 
so  glad  to  know  it. 

Tuesday,  February  eighteenth. 

Such  mild  weather !  With  the  fire  nearly  out  it's  hot  indoors  to- 
night. A  little  snow,  a  little  rain,  but  altogether  a  pleasant  day.  It's 
always  pleasant  when  I  paint  well.  To-day  I  redeemed  two  straying 
pictures  and  they're  among  the  elect  now.  To-night  a  steamer  en- 
tered from  the  westward,  the  Curacao,  long  expected.  She  must 
have  been  here  two  or  three  days  ago  and  since  then  been  to  Seldovia. 
With  incredible  slowness  she  crept  over  the  water.  What  old  hulks 
they  do  put  onto  this  Alaska  service. 

188 


?RISON    BARS 


!' 


OLSON! 

Rockwell's  mothering  of  all  things  exceeded  reason  to-day.  He 
put  two  sticks  of  wood  on  the  fire  after  I  had  intended  it  to  go  out. 
I  removed  them,  blazing  merrily.  "  Don't "  cried  Rockwell  seriously, 
"  you'll  hurt  the  fire's  feelings.  " 

Rockwell  cleared  off  the  boat  to-day.  Next  we  must  dig  her  out. 
To-morrow  the  engine  must  be  put  in  order.  We  must  find  a  hole  in 
the  gasoline  tank  and  solder  it  and  then  coax  it  into  starting.  It  is  on 
such  jobs  that  whole  precious  days  are  wasted. 

Rockwell  loves  every  foot  of  this  spot  of  land.  To-night  he  spoke 
of  the  beauties  of  the  lake,  its  steep  wooded  shores,  clean  and  pebbly, 
and  the  one  low,  clear,  and  level  spot  where  we  approached  the  water. 
He  had  planned  to  live  this  summer  the  day  long  on  the  shores  of  the 
lake,  naked,  playing  in  and  out  of  the  water  or  paddling  some  craft 
about.  I  thought  of  putting  up  a  tent  in  some  mossy  dell  along  the 
shore  and  letting  Rockwell  sleep  there  nights  alone  and  learn  early 
the  wonders  of  a  hermit's  life.    And  none  of  it  is  to  be ! 

Wednesday,  February  nineteenth. 

It  rains  and  storms.  But  to-day  we  repaired  the  engine  and  we're 
ready  to  start  for  Seward  when  it  clears.  Above  every  other  thought 
now  is  the  sad  realization  that  our  days  on  this  beloved  island  are 
nearing  an  end.  What  is  it  that  endears  it  so  to  a  man  near  forty  and 
a  little  boy  of  nine?  We  have  such  widely  different  outlooks  upon  life. 
It  may  be  that  Alaska  stands  midway  between  us,  and  that  I,  turning 
backward  from  the  crowded  world  that  I  have  known  and  learned  to 
fear,  meet  Rockwell  in  his  forward  march  from  nothing — to  this. 
If  that  be  so  we  have  met  only  for  a  moment  for  such  perfect  sym- 
pathy. His  love  will  pass  on  from  this  and  mine  will  grow  dissatisfied 
and  wander  still.  But  I  think  it's  otherwise.  It  seems  that  we  have 
both  together  by  chance  turned  out  of  the  beaten,  crowded  way  and 
come  to  stand  face  to  face  with  that  infinite  and  unfathomable  thing 

191 


WILDERNESS 

which  is  the  wilderness;  and  here  we  have  found  OURSELVES — 
for  the  wilderness  is  nothing  else.  It  is  a  kind  of  living  mirror  that 
gives  back  as  its  own  all  and  only  all  that  the  imagination  of  a  man 
brings  to  it.  It  Is  that  which  we  believe  it  to  be.  So  here  we  have 
stood,  we  two,  and  if  we  have  not  shuddered  at  the  emptiness  of  the 
abyss  and  fled  from  its  loneliness,  it  is  because  of  the  wealth  of  our 
own  souls  that  filled  the  void  with  imagery,  warmed  it,  and  gave  it 
speech  and  understanding.  This  vast,  wild  land  we  have  made  a 
child's  world  and  a  man's. 

I  know  nothing  in  all  life  more  beautiful  than  the  perfect 
belief  of  Rockwell  in  his  Paradise  here.  Unopposed,  his  romance 
has  kindled  every  object  on  the  homestead ;  so  that  now  for  hours 
he  can  steal  about  in  the  forest,  on  the  beach,  along  the  lake, — 
in  absolute  contentment,  for  it  is  wonderland  itself.  The  "King's 
road,"  the  "Giant's  path"  where  stand  the  gummy  "ten-pound 
butter  tree"  and  all  the  giants  with  whom  Sir  Lancelot  must  joust, 
the  magpie's  grave  marked  with  a  cross,  the  otter's  cave,  the  marvel- 
ous frozen  stream ;  those  strange  wild  people,  the  Treaps,  who  visit 
these  shores  occasionally  to  hunt  the  white  man  for  his  skin  as  the 
white  man  has  hunted  their  dear  animals;  rain-bears  and  wild-cat- 
eaters — appalling  animals  that  inhabit  the  dark  woods  but  are  good 
friends  to  Rockwell.  Every  log  and  rotten  stump,  the  gnarled  trees, 
with  or  without  "butter,"  every  mound  and  path,  the  rocks,  the 
streams,  each  is  a  being  in  itself ;  and  with  those  most  living  goats,  and 
the  brilliant  magpies,  the  pretty,  little,  dingy  sparrows,  the  glorious 
and  virtuous  porcupines,  the  black,  black  crows,  the  great  and  noble 
eagle,  the  rare  spider  and  the  rarer  fly,  and  the  wonderful,  strong, 
sleek  otters  that  leap  in  sport  through  the  snow  and  coast  down-hill, 
they  make  a  world  of  romance  that  has  thrilled  one  little  boy  to 
the  very  bottom  of  his  soul.  To  live  here,  to  accumulate  about  him 
more  and  more  animals  and  shelter  them  from  harm,  to  live  forever 

192 


RUNNING  WATER 


OLSON! 

or,  if  he  must,  grow  old,  and  very  old;  here  marry — not  a  Seward 
girl  but  one  more  beautiful — or  an  Indian ! — here  raise  a  great  family 
— and  here  die.  That  now  is  the  ideal  of  little  Rockwell.  And  if  we, 
his  family,  all  of  us,  would  count  we  must  come  here  to  him  where 
with  patriarchal  magnificence  and  dignity  he  will  care  for  us. 

Thursday,  February  twentieth. 

All  day  out-of-doors,  both  of  us.  In  the  morning  Rockwell  and  I 
journeyed  around  the  point  between  the  two  coves  of  the  island.  It's 
a  rocky  promontory  with  a  great  jumble  of  bowlders  at  its  base  that 
one  must  scramble  over.  These  are  generally  wet  and  slippery  and 
not  much  fun.  However  we  went  well  around  and  I  set  up  my  canvas 
and  painted  while  Rockwell  crawled  about  in  caves  and  crevasses 
playing  some  sort  of  wild  beast.  The  wind  rose  as  I  finished  and  made 
it  difficult  to  convey  my  wet  canvas  without  damaging  it.  And  in  the 
afternoon  again  I  painted  on  two  pictures  out-of-doors.  That's  to 
be  my  work  now  till  the  time  I  go.  To-morrow  if  the  day  is  right  we 
start  for  Seward.  Our  boat  is  dug  out  of  the  snow,  our  goods  are 
packed,  the  engine  chafes  at  the  throttle.  I  am  tired  to-night  and  it  is 
bedtime. 

Sunday,  February  twenty-third. 

Friday  was  calm.  We  left  the  island  at  about  eleven — after  the 
usual  hours  fussing  with  the  engine.  At  Hogg's  camp  we  called  in 
for  something  to  bale  with,  for  the  boat,  being  leaky,  had  taken  in  a  lot 
of  water.  No  one  at  home — so  I  stole  a  bowl  from  the  shed  and  we 
proceeded.  By  then  the  sun  shone  upon  us  and  we  could  observe, 
what  we  later  confirmed  at  Seward,  that  the  sun  shines  at  the  head 
of  the  bay  while  the  island,  our  island,  is  shrouded  in  clouds.  Quite 
different  conditions  prevail  in  the  two  localities.  With  us  it  is  warmer 
and  much  wetter.    The  recorded  rainfall  for  Seward,  that  some  time 

195 


WILDERNESS 

ago  seemed  incredibly  small,  does  not  fit  Fox  Island  at  all.  Olson's 
records  for  last  summer  show  prevailing  rainy  weather — and  Seward 
rejoiced  in  unprecedented  sunshine !  And  during  these  three  days 
in  Seward  now,  days  wonderfully  fair,  thick  clouds  have  always  been 
over  Fox  Island.  And  even  the  wind  blows  there  when  Seward's 
waters  are  calm. 

And  so  on  Friday  we  reached  Seward  with  flying  colors,  stowed  our 
boat  up  high,  put  the  engine  into  Olson's  cabin,  and  walked  again  the 
streets  of  civilization.  Here  everyone  is  friendly.  The  first  night 
Rockwell  dined  out  at  one  house  and  slept  at  another  with  a  lot  of 
children.  What  must  they  have  thought  of  his  underclothes !  I  went 
supperless — writing  letters  instead.  And  then  flute  music  at  the 
postmaster's.  Next  day  very  early  the  steamer  came  and  the  day 
passed  for  me  in  the  wild  excitement  of  receiving  mail. 

Wednesday,  February  twenty-sixth. 

Yesterday  we  came  home !  We  left  Seward  with  only  a  light  load 
aboard.  It  blew  briskly  in  the  bay  from  the  north.  Before  we 
reached  Caine's  Head  there  was  a  splendid,  white-crested  chop  racing 
along  with  us.  Midway  across  it  was  about  all  the  engine  could  have 
stood.  The  propeller  is  not  set  at  enough  depth  in  our  boat  and  in 
yesterday's  sea  it  was  most  of  the  time  out  of  water,  racing  at  a  furious 
pace.  Then  the  boat  would  naturally  lose  steerage  way  and  we'd 
swing  far  out  of  our  course.  But  it  was  great  sport.  Into  it  we  could 
have  made  no  headway;  before  it  nothing  could  stop  us.  And  the 
engine  kept  right  on  going ! — only  as  usual  it  was  continually  falling 
apart.  On  Friday  the  flywheel  came  loose  six  times,  the  muffler  four, 
and  the  valve  spring  fell  off  and  stayed  off.  Coming  back  all  went  well 
till  we  were  in  the  roughest  sea;  then  the  muffler  came  loose.  Not 
wanting  to  stop  the  engine  in  that  sea  I  spent  half  the  time  on  my 
knees  holding  the  tiller  in  one  hand  and  the  muffler  nut  with  a  pair 

196 


IMMANENCE 


I' 


OLSON! 

of  pliers  in  the  other.  Rockwell  bailed  most  of  the  time.  The  boat 
leaks  like  a  sieve. 

And  how  fine  to  get  home  again !  Only  an  hour  and  we  were  again 
seated  at  dinner  in  our  warm  cabin.  Rockwell  said  it  was  hard  for 
him  to  remember  whether  Mr.  Olson  or  we  had  just  been  to  Seward. 
I  brought  Olson  a  battery  box  and  batteries  as  a  present.  He  was 
much  pleased.  But  particularly  his  mail  pleased  him.  I  saw  him  soon 
after  our  arrival  seated  with  his  spectacles  on  studying  his  letters. 
He  rarely  gets  any.  This  time  came  a  post-card  and  letter  from 
Rockwell's  mother. 

The  day  passed  and  evening  came.  Then  appeared  entering  our 
cove  a  cabined  gasoline  boat.  Two  young  fellows  came  ashore  and 
we  all  chatted  in  Olson's  cabin.  One  had  his  wife  aboard.  They 
claimed  to  be  hunting  a  stray  boat, — but  Olson  whispered  to  me  later, 
dramatically,  that  they  were  doubtless  out  dragging  somewhere  for 
a  cache  of  whiskey.  Lots  of  whiskey  has  been  sunk  in  the  bay. 
Marks  were  taken  at  the  time  to  determine  its  location  and  now  the 
owners  as  need  arises  fish  up  what  they  want.  It's  just  like  the  buried 
treasure  of  the  days  of  piracy.  Doubtless  there  are  now  many  charts 
extant  with  the  position  of  liquid  treasure  marked  upon  them. 

To-day  has  been  again  overcast  but  beautifully  mild.  It  is  really 
a  wonderful  climate.  Rockwell  makes  the  most  of  these  last  days. 
He  went  this  morning  to  the  ridge's  top  east  of  us,  and  this  afternoon 
high  up  on  the  mountain  side.  He  now  wants  to  stay  here  and  become 
a  wild  man.  There  is  no  question  in  my  mind  about  his  entire  willing- 
ness, his  desire,  to  be  left  here  when  I  go. 


199 


CHAPTER  XI 


TWILIGHT 

i HE  first  of  March!    If  only  the  dull  weather  would 

clear  up  I  could  get  more  done  these  last  days  here. 

ft  Fifteen  brand-new  canvases  hang  from  my  ridge  pole 

^^fc^^       waiting  for  pictures  to  adorn  them.     To-day  is  the 

only  day  that  work  out-of-doors  has  been  quite  out  of 

the  question.    It  snows  hard.    Last  Thursday  morning  Rockwell  and  I 

began  to  take  our  morning  baths  in  the  bay — the  snow  having  become 

too  hard.    And  now  at   just   seven-fifteen — on   cloudy  mornings, 

clothed  in  sneakers  we  scamper  down  the  shore  and  plunge  into  the 

waves.    Brrrrrrrr !  it's  cold,  but  mighty  good.    Olson,  after  predicting 

for  some  time  a  dire  end  to  our  morning  performances,  has  at  last 

evinced  enough  curiosity  to  drag  himself  out  of  bed  and  come  over 

to  see.     But  he  has  not  yet  been  early  enough  to  catch  us. 

The  days  are  lengthening  rapidly.  It  is  now  after  six  o'clock  in 
the  evening  and  our  lamp's  not  lighted ! 

Last  time  in  Seward  Olson  bought  a  lot  of  odds  and  ends  of 
molding  for  picture  frames.  And  now,  with  my  help,  all  the  little 
things  that  we  have  given  him  are  gorgeously  framed.  On  the  little 
picture  of  himself  that  I  painted  he  has  what  he  calls  a  "  comoflag  " 

200 


TWILIGHT 

frame ;  it's  made  of  different  moldings  on  the  four  sides.  Well,  Olson 
is  mighty  proud  of  his  pictures.  He's  really  very  fond  of  us.  People 
in  Seward  say  he  talks  of  us  continually.  And  there  it  is  thought 
quite  remarkable  how  I  have  managed  with  the  "  crazy  "  old  man. 
I  guess  the  craziness  explains  it.  I  picture  with  horror  having  as  a 
constant  companion  here  one  of  the  fine,  stalwart,  shrewd,  honest, 
wholesome-to-sterility  Americans  that  our  country  likes  to  be  so 
proud  of. 

I  told  Olson  of  Kathleen's  amusement  over  the  brusque  ending  of 
his  letter,  "  Answer  this  if  you  feel  like  it — and  if  you  don't  it's  all  the 
same  to  me.  " 

"Well,"  he  said,  "that's  the  way  it  is  here  in  Alaska;  if  anyone 
don't  like  the  way  a  man  does  he  can  go  to  Hell!" 

I've  heard  an  amusing  story  about  Olson  and  his  goats  at  a  little 
Seward  exposition  at  which  they  were  shown.  They  put  his  two  goats 
into  narrow  packing  boxes  that  their  dirt  might  not  fall  onto  the  floor 
of  the  building.  Olson  arrived  and  seeing  the  plight  of  his  pets  flew 
into  a  rage.  He  lifted  them  out,  hurled  the  packing  boxes  out  of  the 
door  into  the  street,  and  denounced  the  fair- committee  for  then- 
abuse  of  animals.  And  although  the  whole  place  tumbled  about  the 
old  man's  ears,  he  won,  and  saw  his  goats  given  an  honorable  amount 
of  freedom  in  a  special  enclosure — curtained  off,  "admission  to  see 
the  goats  ten  cents," — which  notice  Olson  promptly  disregarded, 
letting  everyone  in — and  a  big  crowd  at  that — free. 

Monday,  March  third. 

Inauguration  day  passed  here  without  event.  In  this  ideal  com- 
munity of  Fox  Island  we're  so  little  concerned  with  law — the  only  law 
that  bears  on  us  at  all  we  delight  in  breaking — that  one  wonders  how 
far  no  government  can  be  carried.  One  goes  back  to  first  principles 
in  such  speculation,  endows  man  again  with  inalienable  rights  or  at 

201 


WILDERNESS 

least  inalienable  desires,  and  then  has  simply  to  wonder  how  much 
of  the  love  of  order  there  is  in  the  natural  man.  The  fact  that  a  large 
proportion  of  mankind  can  live  and  die  without  any  definite  knowledge 
of  the  laws  of  the  community  and  without  ever  running  counter  to  the 
forces  of  law  is  sign  enough  that  most  of  the  law  code  is  but  a  writing 
down  of  what  the  average  man  naturally  wants  to  do  or  keep  from 
doing.  There's  a  sharp  difference  between  such  "common"  law 
and  the  exceptional  law  that  strikes  at  the  personal  liberty  of  a  man, 
laws  concerning  morals,  temperance,  or  that  conscript  unwilling  men 
for  war.  In  all  law  there  is  tyranny,  in  these  laws  tyranny  shows  its 
hand.  The  man  who  wants  true  freedom  must  escape  from  the  whole 
thing.  If  only  such  souls  could  gravitate  to  a  common  center  and 
build  the  new  community  with  inherent  law  and  order  as  its  sole 
guide ! — well,  we  have  returned  to  the  problem.  A  state  that  was 
truly  interested  in  progress  would  dedicate  a  portion  of  its  territory 
to  such  an  experiment.  But  no  state  is  interested  in  anything  but  the 
gain  of  one  class,  which  means  the  oppression  of  the  rest.  How  farci- 
cal sound  these  days  "  Life,  Liberty,  and  the  pursuit  of  Happiness." 
"No  government  without  the  consent  of  the  governed,"  and  other 
old-fashioned  principles.  But  they  have  still  to  be  reckoned  with  till 
the  last  Bolshevik  has  been  converted  into  a  prosperous  tradesman 
and  the  last  idealist  is  dead.   And  now  for  Fox  Island. 

The  weather  is  dull  and  gray — only  last  evening  an  hour  before 
sundown  the  clouds  suddenly  vanished  out  of  the  heavens  and  the 
sun  shone  as  warm  and  beautiful  as  on  the  fairest  summer  day.  Then 
I  sat  out-of-doors  and  painted  while  the  snow  and  ice  melted  and 
dripped  all  about.  The  mornings  are  cold,  doubly  cold  it  seems  when 
in  the  half-light  of  dawn  and  perhaps  a  driving  snow  squall  we  run 
naked  down  the  long  stretch  of  beach  and  plunge  into  the  bay.  I  work 
ceaselessly.  Time  flies  like  mad  and  the  day  of  our  departure  is 
close. 

202 


THE   VISION 


TWILIGHT 

Tuesday,  March  fourth. 

A  day  of  snow  and  rain  spent  by  us  indoors,  Rockwell  hard  at 
work  upon  his  chart  of  "  Trobbeabl  Island  " — a  wonderful  imaginary 
land  where  his  own  strange  species  of  wild  animals  live — and  I  wash- 
ing and  mending.  My  seaman's  bag,  damaged  on  its  way  here  in  the 
hold  of  the  steamer,  is  now  quite  professionally  patched,  and  the 
knee  of  my  blue  overalls  shines  with  a  square  patch  of  white  canvas. 

Olson  was  welcome  and  spent  much  of  the  day  with  us.  He  has 
reread  Kathleen's  letter  to  him  and  is  charmed  with  it.  He  feels 
authorized  by  it  to  keep  me  here  longer  and  surely  does  his  best  to 
persuade  me.  He  treasures  the  picture  little  Kathleen  sent  him.  All 
these  things,  the  letters  and  little  trifles  that  we  have  given  him  will 
be  stored  away  in  his  too  empty  box  of  treasures  among  a  very  few  old 
letters  and  a  photograph  or  two  of  pioneer  ladies  and  gentlemen  in  the 
dress-up  costumes  of  thirty  years  ago.  These  scant  treasures,  what  a 
memorial  of  a  very  lonely  life !  He  showed  me  to-day  a  photograph  of 
Tom  Crane,  an  old  associate  of  his  in  Idaho,  and  two  large,  splendid 
looking  women,  Crane's  wife  and  his  wife's  sister.  The  wife  was 
frozen  to  death  in  the  snow  while  on  a  short  journey  with  her  husband. 
He  lost  both  feet.  Olson  led  the  rescue  party  bringing  in  with  great 
difficulty  the  dead  woman  and  then  tending  Crane  through  long,  pain- 
ful days  until  his  crippled  recovery. 

Thursday,  March  sixth. 

It's  mighty  hard  work,  this  painting  under  pressure.  I'm  too  tired 
to  attempt  more  than  the  briefest  record  on  this  page  of  two  days' 
doings.  Yesterday  it  was  gray.  At  sundown  it  cleared  giving  us  the 
most  splendid  and  beautiful  sunset,  the  sun  sinking  behind  the  purple, 
snowy  mountains  and  throwing  its  rays  upward  into  a  seething  red- 
hot  mass  of  clouds.    I  painted  most  of  the  afternoon  out-of-doors. 

To-day  we  bathed  at  sunrise,  brisk  and  cold  and  clear-     The 

205 


WILDERNESS 

morning  tide  was  so  exceedingly  low  that  I  ran  dry  shod  clear  around 
the  north  side  of  the  cove  until  the  whole  upper  bay  was  visible. 
Olson  had  not  known  it  could  be  done.  Returning  we  put  Olson's 
boat  into  the  water  and  Rockwell  and  I  embarked  with  my  painting 
outfit.  I  landed  on  the  point  I  had  just  visited  afoot.  Rockwell  in 
jumping  ashore  with  the  painter  timed  it  badly,  slipped,  and  fell  full 
length  into  the  surf  of  the  ground  swell,  the  dory  almost  riding  over 
him.  I  roared  with  laughter — to  his  great  fury.  He  rowed  about  in 
the  harbor  for  almost  two  hours  returning  to  bring  me  home.  In  the 
afternoon  we  repeated  our  excursion — all  but  the  water  sports — going 
this  time  to  the  south  side  of  the  cove.  Rockwell's  a  good  little  oars- 
man and  above  all  to  be  trusted  to  do  as  he's  told  to — a  vice  in 
grown-ups,  a  virtue  in  children. 

Friday,  March  seventh. 

That  to-day  began  in  snow  and  cloud  matters  not, — it  ended  in  a 
glory.  Olson,  Rockwell,  and  I  sat  that  late  afternoon  far  out  on  the 
bay  basking  in  the  warmth  of  a  summer  sun,  rocked  gently  on  a  blue 
summer  sea.  For  hours  we  had  explored  the  island's  western  shore, 
skirting  its  tumbled  reefs,  riding  through  perilous  straits  right  up  to 
where  the  eddying  water  seethed  at  some  jagged  chasm's  mouth. 
That's  fine  adventuring !  flirting  with  danger,  safe  enough  but  close — 
so  close  to  death.  We  landed  on  the  beach  of  Sunny  Cove,  found  in 
the  dark  thicket  the  moldering  ruins  of  an  old  feed  house  of  the  foxes, 
gruesome  with  the  staring  bones  of  devoured  carcasses.  And  then 
we  younger  ones  dashed  up  the  sheer,  snow-covered  eastward  ridge 
— dashed  on  all  fours  digging  our  feet  into  the  snow,  clinging  with 
hands  as  to  a  ladder.  There  at  the  top  two  or  three  hundred  feet 
above  the  bay  we  overlooked  the  farthest  seaward  mountains  of  Cape 
Resurrection,  then  Barwell  Island  and  the  open  sea. 

Ah,  to  see  again  that  far  horizon !    Wander  where  you  will  over  all 

206 


THE   IMPERISHABLE 


r 
ft 


TWILIGHT 

the  world,  from  every  valley  seeing  forever  new  hills  calling  you  to 
climb  them,  from  every  mountain  top  farther  peaks  enticing  you. 
Always  the  distant  land  looks  fairest,  till  you  are  made  at  last  a  rest- 
less wanderer  never  reaching  home — never — until  you  stand  one 
day  on  the  last  peak  on  the  border  of  the  interminable  sea,  stopped 
by  the  finality  of  that. 

From  our  feet  the  cliff  dropped  in  a  V-shaped  divide  straight  down 
to  the  green  ocean;  and  at  its  base  the  ground  swell  curled,  broke 
white  and  eddied.  The  jagged  mountains  across  shone  white  against 
black  clouds, — what  peaks!  huge  and  sharp  like  the  teeth  of  the 
Fenris-Wolf. 

We  hurried  back  to  Olson  who  waited  in  the  boat.  That  side — 
the  cove  and  the  more  familiar  mountains  to  the  westward — lay  half 
shrouded  in  fast  dissolving  mist.  The  descent  was  real  sport.  We 
just  sat  down  and  slid  clear  to  the  bottom,  going  at  toboggan  pace. 
Poor  Olson,  who  watched  us  from  below,  was  aghast.  On  the  shore 
I  found  a  long,  thick  bamboo  pole,  doubtless  carried  directly  here  from 
the  orient  by  the  Japanese  current.  We  longed  to  go  across  to  Bear 
Glacier  that  we  could  now  see,  a  broad,  inclined  plane,  spotless  white, 
with  the  tallest  mountains  rising  steeply  from  its  borders.  But  it  was 
too  late  and  we  returned  home.  The  wonders  of  this  country,  of  this 
one  bay  in  fact,  it  would  take  years  to  know ! 

Monday,  March  tenth. 

On  the  eighth  it  snowed  hard  all  day  and  both  of  us  worked  at  our 
trade  indoors.  The  ninth  dawned  fresh  and  clear  and  cold.  It  was  too 
windy  to  go  out  onto  the  bay  as  we  had  intended,  so,  not  to  be  entirely 
cheated  out  of  an  excursion,  we  packed  a  bag  of  various  supplies  and 
set  off  for  the  ridge  to  the  eastward. 

It  was  glorious  in  the  woods.  New  fallen  snow  lay  upon  the  tree 
branches;  the  sun  touched  only  the  tallest  tops,  the  wind  rustled 
14  209 


WILDERNESS 

them  now  and  then  and  made  it  snow  again  below.  We  came  out 
upon  the  summit  of  the  ridge  more  to  the  north  than  we  had  ever  been 
before  and  from  there  beheld  again  the  open  sea.  Nothing  can  be 
more  wonderful  than  to  emerge  from  the  dense  forest  onto  such  a 
view !  Right  on  the  ridge  we  built  a  fibre  beneath  the  arched  roots  of 
a  large  tree.  Rockwell  will  long  remember  that  wonderful  chimney 
beneath  the  roots.  I  painted  on  one  of  the  canvases  I  had  brought 
while  Rockwell  played  about  or  cut  wood  for  the  fire.  Presently 
the  can  of  beans  that  we'd  laid  in  the  ashes  went  pop ! — and  we  knew 
that  dinner  was  ready.  So  we  sat  down  and  ate  the  good  beans,  bread 
and  peanut  butter,  and  chocolate, — while  our  backs  sizzled  and  our 
bellies  froze.  But  we  loved  it  and  Rockwell  proposed  that  we  spend 
three  or  four  days  there  like  that.  Then  after  more  painting  and  some 
play  in  the  snow  we  came  home  again. 

But  the  beautiful  days  must  be  busy  ones  for  me.  I  painted  out  on 
the  lake  for  an  hour  or  more ;  after  that  again — this  time  the  glorious 
sunset.  After  supper  bread  to  bake  and  then,  tired  out,  early  to 
sleep  in  our  great,  hard,  comfortable  bed.  Olson  would  have  started 
to-day  had  the  weather  been  moderate.  But  it  has  blown  fiercely 
from  the  north — and  still  it  blows.  All  day  I  worked  packing  and  now 
my  boxes  are  made  and  nearly  filled.  It  is  surely  true  that  we  are 
going !  All  day  it  has  seemed  to  me  to  be  fall.  We  had  thought  of 
that  before  during  these  recent  days.  We  scent  it  and  feel  it.  I 
believe  that  it's  the  end  of  a  real  summer  in  our  lives  that  we  taste 
the  sadness  of. 

Tuesday,  March  eleventh. 

It  blows  incessantly,  cold  and  clear, — blue  days.  I  have  painted 
most  of  to-day,  first  indoors,  and  then  outdoors  commencing  a  large 
picture.  Olson  has  been  with  us  much  of  the  time.  He  treasures 
every  little  memento  we  can  give  him.    In  his  pocket-book  are  snap- 

210 


THE    STAR-LIGHTER 


TWILIGHT 

shots  of  Kathleen,  Clara,  and  Barbara.  He  wanted  Barbara's  curl 
that  I  have — but  I  couldn't  give  him  that.  It  looks  as  if  we  should  all 
go  to  Seward  together.  This  wind  is  likely  to  hold  until  the  full  moon 
passes — and  that's  still  some  days  off.  My  trunk  is  about  packed  and 
what  remains  can  be  done  in  a  very  few  hours. 

Speaking  to  Olson  to-night  about  the  possibility  of  a  shipwrecked 
man  being  able  to  support  life  on  this  coast  for  any  length  of  time  he 
told  of  a  native  boy  of  Unga,  "crazy  Simyon,"  who  lived  four  years 
at  Nigger  Head,  a  wild  part  of  Unga  Island,  with  no  shelter  but  a  hole 
in  a  sand  bank,  no  fire,  no  weapons  or  clothes,  or  tools ;  a  first-hand 
story,  long,  wild,  terrible,  beginning  with  a  boy's  theft  of  sacrificial 
wine,  and  ending  in  madness  and  murder. 

Thursday,  March  thirteenth. 

Last  night  was  bitterly  cold.  I  had  to  get  up  repeatedly  to  attend 
to  the  fire.  The  wind  howled  and  the  vapor  flew  and  Rockwell  and  I 
hugged  close  together  beneath  the  blankets.  Day  dawned  still  icy 
cold.  By  noon  it  began  to  snow  and  the  afternoon  was  calm  and  mild. 
And  now  again  the  wind  blows  fiercely  from  the  northeast  and  we're 
freezing  cold !  The  day  was  spent  in  packing.  The  dismantled  cabin 
looks  forlorn. 

Sunday,  March  sixteenth. 

With  the  full  moon  has  come  the  most  perfect  calm.  If  it  holds 
through  to-morrow  we  shall  leave  the  island.  The  past  three  days 
have  been  busy  ones.  Bitterly  cold  weather  has  prevailed  with  the 
wind  unceasingly  from  the  north — almost  the  coldest  days  of  the 
winter.  Still  I  did  some  painting  out-of-doors  every  day  until  yester- 
day, trying  hard  to  pin  upon  the  canvas  a  little  more  of  the  infinite 
splendors  of  this  place.  Meanwhile  our  packing  was  carried  on.  We 
have  made  a  thoroughly  good  job  of  it— I  hope!    But  who  can  tell 

213 


WILDERNESS 

what  strain  a  trip  of  so  many  thousand  miles  will  put  upon  our  crates 
and  bundles?    But  for  a  promise  we  had  made  Olson  to  go  with  him 


DEAKfST      MOTHER^ST^ 

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L0VIN.&LY  ROCKWfut- 

to  Sunny  Bay  and  Humpback  Creek — on  the  eastern  mainland — we'd 
have  gone  this  day  to  Seward. 

By  noon  the  most  perfect  calm  had  settled  upon  the  water.    The 
sky  was  cloudless,  and  although  really  it  was  still  very  cold  the  bright 

214 


TWILIGHT 

sun  looked  like  warmth — and  that  helped  a  lot.  So  Olson's  little 
engine,  sputtering,  stammering,  stopping  a  great  deal,  carried  us  upon 
our  trip.  At  Humpback  Creek  there  are  falls  maybe  thirty  feet  high, 
perfect  falls  tumbling  sheer  down  from  a  plateau  into  a  deep  round 
basin.  The  falls  to-day  were  frozen  and  spread  wide  over  the  face  of 
the  cliff ;  but  it  was  easy  to  imagine  the  grace  of  their  summer  form. 
We  had  to  hurry  from  here  or  be  stranded  by  the  rapidly  retreating 
tide.  Next  we  went  to  a  spot  on  the  bay  where  Rockwell  and  I  might 
have  lived  had  we  not  met  Olson  that  fair  Sunday  in  August.  A  little 
cabin  stood  there — open  to  the  weather  through  doorway  and  window 
but  otherwise  snug  and  comfortable.  Still,  even  with  that  great 
wonder,  the  fall,  so  near,  that  spot  was  not  to  be  compared  with  our 
own  Fox  Island  home.  Next  we  went  to  Sunny  Bay  to  visit  the  old 
trapper  who  has  been  wintering  there — the  same  who  stopped  last 
fall  at  our  island  while  on  his  way  to  camp.  The  old  fellow  came  to 
meet  us  as  we  landed,  a  feeble,  emaciated  figure.  He  has  been  sick 
all  winter  and  has  done  practically  no  trapping.  What  a  forlorn  latter 
end  for  a  man !  He  drags  himself  about  each  day,  cuts  wood,  lugs 
water,  cooks,  and  when  he  stoops  dizziness  overcomes  him.  He  sets 
a  small  circle  of  traps  and  drags  himself  around  to  tend  them.  His 
whole  winter's  work  is  twelve  ermine  and  two  mink — thirty  or  forty 
dollars'  worth  at  the  most.  We  offered  to  bring  the  old  man  back  with 
us  and  from  here  on  to  Seward — but  he  preferred  to  stay  there  a  few 
days  longer. 

And  now  I  sit  here  with  our  packed  household  goods  about 
me,  empty  walls  and  a  dismantled  home.  Still  we  hardly  realize 
that  this  beautiful  adventure  of  ours  has  come  to  an  end.  The 
enchantment  of  it  has  been  complete;  it  has  possessed  us  to  the 
very  last.  How  long  such  happiness  could  hold,  such  quiet  life 
continue  to  fill  up  the  full  measure  of  human  desires  only  a  long 
experience  could  teach.     The  still,  deep  cup  of  the  wilderness  is 

215 


WILDERNESS 

potent  with  wisdom.     Only  to  have  tasted  it  is  to  have  moved  a 
lifetime  forward  to  a  finer  youth. 

Tuesday,  March  eighteenth. 

Fox  Island  is  behind  us.  Last  August  Olson  picked  us  up  as 
strangers  and  towed  us  to  his  island;  yesterday,  after  nearly  seven 
months  there  with  him  we  climbed  again  into  our  dories  and  crossed 
the  bay — and  now  we  extend  the  helping  hand  to  the  old  man  and 
tow  him  and  his  faltering  engine  back  to  Seward.  The  day  dawned 
cold  and  windy.  We  proceeded  however  at  once  to  the  completion 
of  our  packing  and  the  loading  of  the  boat. 

A  little  after  noon  the  wind  moderating  slightly  we  persuaded 
Olson  to  come  with  us.  My  engine  working  beautifully  carried  both 
boats  along  till  the  other  little  motor  could  be  prevailed  upon  to  start. 
In  the  bay  the  wind  was  fresh  and  the  chop  high.  Half-way  across  the 
wind  had  risen  and  the  water  flew.  Olson's  engine  worked  so  poorly 
that  most  of  the  time  I  had  the  full  strain  of  his  dory  on  the  line.  I 
feared  the  old  man's  courage  would  give  out  as  the  sea  increased,  and 
I  grinned  at  him  reassuringly  from  time  to  time.  Finally,  however,  as 
the  white-crested  waves  seemed  to  rush  ever  more  fiercely  upon  us 
his  face  grew  solemn.  He  waved  to  us  to  turn  and  run  back  to  the 
island.  But  the  tow  line  was  fast  in  my  boat  and  I  neither  chose  to 
turn  nor  loosen  it.  Showing  our  backs  to  him  we  ran  for  the  shelter 
of  Caine's  Head — and  made  it.  From  there  onward  we  skirted  the 
cliffs  and  found  it  smooth  enough.  The  wind  again  died  out  and 
we  entered  Seward  over  a  glassy  sea. 

And  now  at  last  it  is  over.  Fox  Island  will  soon  become  in  our 
memories  like  a  dream  or  vision,  a  remote  experience  too  wonderful, 
for  the  full  liberty  we  knew  there  and  the  deep  peace,  to  be  remem- 
bered or  believed  in  as  a  real  experience  in  life.    It  was  for  us  life  as 

216 


TWILIGHT 

it  should  be,  serene  and  wholesome ;  love — but  no  hate,  faith  without 
disillusionment,  the  absolute  for  the  toiling  hands  of  man  and 
for  his  soaring  spirit.  Olson  of  the  deep  experience,  strong,  brave, 
generous  and  gentle  like  a  child;  and  his  island — like  Paradise. 
Ah  God, — and  now  the  world  again ! 


217 


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